OUTH 


diaries  ^T 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 


Crossing  n   ridge  of  the   swamp. 


THE  FOUNTAIN 
OF  YOUTH 


BY 


CHARLES  TENNEY  JACKSON 


Illustrated  with  Photographs 


NEW   YORK 

OUTING   PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
MCMXIV 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     WE  TAKE  A  CHANCE  WITH  EACH  OTHER    .  11 

II.     THE  OLD  PIRATE  FOLKSES 34 

III.  THE    BARATARIANS .  57 

IV.  A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "  TIGER  "  BOAT  .      *     .  78 
V.     THE  OLD  STO'  BALLS 93 

VI.     BLACKBERRY   ROMANCE     .,..,.  109 

VII.     SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  L'OuRSE  .      .      .     »      .  132 

VIII.     THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP       .      .      .      .  153 

IX.     SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING    ......  178 

X.     THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS   ......  194 

XI.     ADRIFT  WITH  THE  FLOATING  GARDENS  .      .  223 

XII.     DOWN  LA  FOURCHE  IN  A  "  GAZZOLINE  "     .  254 

XIII.  PADDLING  TO  THE  GULF  ISLANDS     .      ,      .  269 

XIV.  MORE  BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS  .      .      .  289 
XV.     ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND       .....  306 

XVI.     WITH  THE  MORO  EXILES 320 

XVII.     THE  "  BANTAYAN  "  ENDS  HER  CRUISE  .  335 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Crossing  a  ridge  of  the  swamp        ...     Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

The  first  camp  in  Barataria  ,; 16 

The  tow  steamer  finally  passed  us 24 

We  inquired  the  way 32 

The  trappers  paddle  from  the  deep  swamp  ...  40 

An  oak  that  sheltered  the  buccaneers  of  Barataria  .  48 

Running  his  trapline 56 

The  ancient  burial  place  of  the  Berthauds  ...  64 
The  rendezvous  of  La  Fitte's  pirates  on  the  shell 

temple 72 

Clark  Cheniere's  lonely  shore 80 

I  tried  the  pirogue  out  cautiously 88 

A  seine  company  hauling  shrimp  on  the  shores  of 

Barataria  Bay 104 

We  dug  through  the  cane  to  the  swamp  .  .  .  112 

The  cypress  reflect  their  beauty  from  the  swamp  lakes  1 20 

A  chance  meeting  at  the  bayou's  edge  .  .  .  .  128 

Landing  on  the  lily-guarded  shore 136 

Florion  and  I  hunted  squirrels  in  the  deep  swamp  .  144 

Thankful  to  camp  on  the  roots  of  a  sunken  cypress  .  152 
Now  and  then  we  dragged  the  pirogue  from  pool  to 

pool 160 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

We  shot  squirrels  along  the  jungle-grown  shores  of 

Grand   Lake 176 

On  Bayou  Teche 192 

A  terrapin  hunter  and  his  "  turtle  dogs  "  on  Bara- 

taria    Bay 208 

The  desolate  shores  of  Caminada 216 

Raising  the  seine 232 

Site  of  Jean  La  Fitte's  fort  at  Grand  Terre       .      .  240 
We  had  reached  salt  water  and  salt  water  men  .      .  256 
We  climb  above  the  moss  plumes  to  take  an  obser 
vation     272 

The  pelicans  of  the  Grand  Isle  marshes  .      .      .      .  288 

Drying  shrimp  on  the  platform 304s 

The  sunken  shores  and  cypress  spikes  of  Grand  Lake  320 

Old  Man  Captain's  camp  after  the  crevasse  .      .      .  336 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 


CHAPTER   I 

TAKE  A  CHANCE  WITH  EACH  OTHEB 


I   NEVER  laid  eyes  upon  Hen  until  we  were 
introduced  at  the  University  Club.    It  was 
a  gray  day  of  dirty  snow,  February,  and 
the  North;  and  I  saw  at  once  that  something 
ailed  the  man,  stomach,  or  the  weather,  or  busi 
ness.    I  also  was  peeved  —  what  did  Smith  mean 
by  introducing  two  strangers  who  merely  de 
sired  to  be  left  alone  to  nurse  their  grouches? 
Well,  the  thing  was  done,  and  Hen  and  I  stared 
gloomily  across  the  table  at  each  other. 

He  looked  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
start  off,  on  ten  minutes'  notice,  to  pursue  a 
phantasy,  and  so  did  I;  two  bachelors,  thin  of 
hair,  with  eye-glasses,  and  in  those  mid-thirties 
when  a  man  begins  to  think  a  bit  of  the  long, 
straight  road,  and  yet  can  hark  back  to  the  high 

trail  of  youth.    Two  men  we  were  without  ties 

11 


12     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

or  the  saving  grace  of  knowing  that  one  is  nec 
essary  anywhere  in  the  scheme.  As  Hen  mut 
tered  suddenly,  either  of  us  could  be  eliminated 
without  disturbing,  for  an  instant,  the  cosmic 
order.  I  saw  at  once  something  was  wrong  with 
his  soul  or  his  stomach.  Cafes,  theaters,  cock 
tails,  newspapers,  telephones,  appointments, 
women  who  seemed  to  think  one  was  designed 
by  a  frivolous  providence  to  amuse  them — the 
whole  jangling  scheme  of  the  day  was  irritably 
foolish. 

I  remarked  cleverly  that  the  weather  was  rot 
ten.  And  the  man  stared  at  me  a  moment  and 
then  burst  out:  "Yes,  and  let's  get  out  of  it!" 

"  Where?  "  I  responded. 

There  was  a  map  of  the  New  World  on  the 
wall  and  Hen  suddenly  put  back  his  chair, 
crossed  over,  and  drew  a  huge  circle  about  the 
lower  half  of  North  America.  "  Say ! "  he 
growled ;  "  let's  get  a  canoe  and  paddle  around 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico!" 

Now,  I  had  never  seen  a  canoe  in  my  life. 
Mighty  curious,  but  true.  And  I  had  never 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  13 

given  a  thought  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  since  high 
school  days.  But  I  looked  at  the  map.  Then 
I  looked  at  the  man.  Then  I  murmured: 
"Well,  I  don't  see  what's  to  stop  us.  There 
don't  seem  to  be  any  obstructions  except  some 
islands  and  Florida,  which  sticks  out  a  bit  in  the 
way,  but  by  paddling  carefully  a  fellow  won't 
hit  'em." 

Hen  looked  at  me  with  more  approval. 
"Look  here!  I'm  thirty-five  and  feel  fifty. 
Just  discovered  that  I'm  hated  by  every  man 
in  our  sales  department;  my  stenographer  quit 
last  night.  Up  and  told  me  she  wouldn't  stand 
for  me  any  longer.  Yah!  "  He  made  an  awful 
grimace  at  me :  "  No — not  girl — stomach. 
That's  me.  Now,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  Only,  I'd  like  to  go  back — 
back  to  something  that  isn't  smart  or  clever; 
dinner  people  who  work  so  strainedly  to  impress 
you;  show  people  who  do  so  much  caterwauling 
to  shock  you ;  magazine  people  who  endeavor  so 
highmindedly  to  enlighten  you.  There  isn't  a 
jolt  in  the  entire  smear  of  'em,  and  I  want  to 


14     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

sidestep  it  all.  Back — back  to  something  that 
is  mere,  simple  good  humor,  so's  we  could  laugh 
like  when  we  were  kids " 

"  That's  it!  You  got  it! "  Hen  pounded  the 
table  excitedly.  "  Back  to  youth.  Hey — who 
was  the  old  party  from  Spain  who  got  tired  of 
reform  and  investigation  and  the  drama  and  all, 
and  went  to  Florida  looking  for  the  Fountain  of 
Youth?  His  hair  was  thin  and  his  digestion 
none  too  good,  so  he  beat  it.  Ponce  got  in 
wrong.  Why,  all  Florida  is  jammed  with  hotels, 
and  the  hotels  with  people  who  haven't  a  decent 
stomach  to  bless  'em.  And  their  hair — why,  it 
comes  from  Paris,  or  Roumania,  or  Kashgar! 
Yes,  sir,  they  goldbricked  poor  old  Ponce  when 
he  put  up  there.  Now,  you  and  I — we'll  get  a 
canoe  and  go  paddle  around  until  we  find  the 
Fountain." 

I  had  never  seen  Hen  ten  minutes  before. 
And,  I  repeat,  I'd  never  seen  a  canoe.  Life 
had  kept  me  busied  between  the  shortgrass 
country  and  the  big  cities,  and  a  canoe  had  just 
never  fallen  under  my  eye. 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  15 

"  Well,"  I  responded,  "when  can  you  start?  " 
"  At  six-thirty.  We'll  grab  the  New  Orleans 
Limited.  You  go  telegraph  to  Old  Town, 
Maine,  where  the  best  canoes  come  from,  and 
order  one  to  be  sent  on  to  us.  I'll  chase  upstairs 
and  pack  my  stuff — guns  and  rods  and  alumi 
num  cooking  outfit  and  a  striped  little  tent — 
and  the  duffle  bags " 

"  Piffle  sacks !  "  I  retorted,  for  I'd  never  heard 
of  them.  "  All  right.  Six-thirty  on  the  Lake 
Shore.  I'll  get  two  taxis  for  the  outfit."  We 
arose  and  clattered  back  our  chairs.  "  Beg  par 
don,"  I  went  on,  "  but  what  did  Smith  say  your 
name  was  ? " 

Then  we  both  laughed — really  laughed,  for 
the  first  time  since  the  playhouse  season  opened. 
"You're  right,  old  man!  One  really  ought  to 
know,  of  course,  if  one  is  going  off  to — to " 

"Find  the  Fountain?  And  more  hair — and 
a  stomach?  You're  right  as  right  can  be.  But 
I'll  take  a  chance  on  you,  old  top — you  and  your 
grouch ! " 

We  were  taking  chances.    One  does  when  one 


16     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

agrees — ten  minutes  after  meeting  a  man — to 
go  roll  in  the  same  blanket  with  him.  And  eat 
turtle  eggs  with  him.  And  fight  mosquitoes 
with  him.  And  hunt  for  pirates'  treasure  along 
with  Old  Man  Captain.  And  splash  with  him 
in  the  Fountain!  Never  two  men  who  had 
fewer  illusions  than  Hen  and  I.  We  merely 
had  a  vision,  and  that  was  of  two  total  strangers, 
thin  of  hair  and  wearing  goldset  eye-glasses, 
paddling  a  canoe  around  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
stopping,  now  and  then,  to  inquire  the  way,  and 
maybe  buy  fresh  rolls  of  the  natives  for  break 
fast. 

But  I  leave  it  to  you  if  we  were  cynics.  Cynics 
never  start  to  find  the  Fountain  in  a  sixteen-foot 
muslin  ship.  Cynicism  stays  home  and  croaks; 
and  afar  the  sun  is  shining  and  the  breezes  play. 
Cynics  were  plenty  about  the  club  when  Hen 
and  I  calmly  explained. 

"  The  bloom  is  off  the  peach,  the  faces  on  the 
street  no  longer  fair ;  a  fellow's  breakfast  doesn't 
sit  well,  and  his  pipe  is  sour.  So,  we're  going." 

I'll  not  rehearse  all  the  croaking.     "  Yellow 


a; 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  17 

fever/'  they  said.  "  It's  exploded,"  we  retorted. 
"Snakes!"  "We'll  carry  a  barrel  of  dope." 
"  Get  capsized?"  "We'll  sit  on  the  sea  sands 
and  eat  turtle  eggs  when  the  going's  not  good." 
"Hurricanes?"  "We'll  sit  under  something 
when  it  rains  and  read  the  camp  goods  cata 
logs." 

"Well,"  they  concluded,  "chase  along — get 
it  out  of  your  systems." 

Inside  of  fifteen  minutes  I  had  ordered  that 
sea-going  canoe  from  Old  Town,  Maine.  That's 
all  I  said.  I  repeat,  I  didn't  know  anything 
about  them.  But  I  didn't  tell  Hen.  I  hated  to 
be  rude  to  a  stranger.  I  broke  the  news  to  him 
some  weeks  later  when  a  ripping  sea  charged 
up  at  us  on  Lake  Salvador,  and  Hen  made 
some  tart  comment  about  my  stroke.  Then  I 
turned  and  yelled  in  the  gale. 

"  Hen,  I've  knocked  about  all  over  the  short- 
grass  country  and  the  big  hills,  and  steered  all 
kinds  of  proper  devices,  but  of  this  craft,  tell 
me,  I  beg,  which  end  is  which?" 

I  yelled  all  that  into  the  gale.     Hen  turned 


18     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

white,  and  stopped  paddling  for  an  instant.  He 
looked  at  the  far,  dim  shore  over  the  smother  of 
whitecaps  and  began  to  figure  up  his  life  insur 
ance. 

"Stung!"  he  murmured  bitterly — "sure  as 
little  green  apples !  " 

"  Canoe? "  I  sang  out  again:  "  Why,  I  can't 
even  spell  it !  " 

Then  he  yelled:  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
before?" 

"If  I  had,  you'd  never  have  come!"  I 
shouted. 

"  Poor  fool !  "  he  said.    "  You're  right ! " 

Well,  I'm  ahead  of  this  narrative,  turtle  eggs, 
the  Fountain,  Old  Man  Captain  Johnson,  the 
Gulf,  and  everything. 

As  I  said,  Hen  got  the  outfit.  He'd  read 
many  more  sporting  catalogues  and  outing 
books  than  I.  At  that,  neither  of  us  knew  a 
sea  cow  from  a  barred  Holstein,  a  tarpon  from 
a  tarpaulin.  But  it  didn't  make  much  differ 
ence:  we  never  saw  any. 

The  first  thing  Hen  got  was  a  hypodermic 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  19 

syringe  and  some  stuff  to  pump  in  when  a  fellow 
was  snake-bitten.  And  thereafter,  in  all  our 
adventures,  his  secret  grievance  was  that  I  re 
fused  to  get  snake-bit.  We  practiced  one  day 
on  a  Barataria  nigger  as  to  needle  insertions, 
but  he  also  declined  to  get  snake-bit  and  make 
the  experiment  complete.  Hen  was  disgusted 
with  that  nigger,  and  that  very  day  we  pulled 
up  camp  and  went  on  to  discover  some  more 
public-spirited  colored  citizen  and  a  handy 
snake. 

So  all  that  day  while  Hen  hustled  the 
outfit  together,  I  read  up  on  the  Gulf  coast 
country.  The  articles  of  agreement  between 
Hen  and  me  were  indefinite  enough ;  we  merely 
purposed  to  canoe  around  anywhere  in  the  Gulf 
where  it  was  deep  enough.  So  I  read  up  all  the 
Coast  and  Geodetic  Survey  stuff  back  to  1879. 
Apparently  the  War  Department  spends  all  its 
time  getting  up  data  which  no  non-scientific 
citizen  can  make  head  or  tail  of.  Some  day  I'll 
head  a  protest  to  have  geodetic  reports  made 
out  so  that  the  tired  business  man  who  supports 


20     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

the  Republic  on  his  cigars,  highballs,  steel  rails, 
ad  valorem  and  otherwise,  can  make  out  what 
the  War  Department  means  by  all  those  figures 
and  triangulations  which  bother  the  taxpayer 
who  wants  to  go  find  the  Fountain  of  Youth. 

But  enough:  eight  days  later  two  baldheaded 
men  with  glasses  and  khaki  suits,  abominably 
new  and  crinkly,  paddled  up  to  a  wharf  on 
Harvey's  canal  in  southern  Louisiana.  There 
was  a  brilliant  March  sun  and  the  world  was 
as  clean  as  a  porcelain  bathtub.  Bald  and 
burned  a  deep  ochre  across  the  brow,  and  wear 
ing  glasses — it  must  have  been  like  an  invasion 
of  Martians  down  in  that  Louisiana  swamp, 
where  no  Cajun  had  ever  seen  a  canvas  canoe. 

Now,  frankly,  I'll  confess  they've  never  seen 
one  yet.  Ours  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  Atlan 
tic.  We'd  waited  days  in  New  Orleans  for  that 
canoe  shipped  from  Boston  to  arrive,  and  then 
we  hauled  our  stuff  across  the  Mississippi  and 
camped  on  Harvey's  canal;  and  the  next  day 
paddled  a  cypress  johnboat  down  toward  the 
Gulf.  Not  for  a  month  did  we  learn  that  our 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  21 

beautiful  sea-going  canoe  had  gone  down  with 
her  ship  in  a  collision  off  Hatteras. 

Never  mind,  I'll  tell  you  something  just  as 
interesting  as  canoe-trips  —  much  more  so. 
You'll  not  be  sorry  for  reading  on.  Speaking 
of  colored  persons,  on  our  flit  through  New  Or 
leans,  we  saw  one  on  a  bicycle  flying  up  the 
street  balancing  a  tray  on  his  head  on  which 
were  four  plates  of  oysters  on  the  half  shell,  a 
slice  of  lemon  on  each  plate,  and  a  bottle  of  beer 
in  the  middle.  That  was  worth  going  South 
to  see. 

It  was  good  to  go,  out  of  the  Northern  Feb 
ruary,  and  a  gray  town  of  docks  and  overhang 
ing  cranes  and  coal  carriers  and  murky  slips, 
and  on  to  greet  spring  slipping  up  from  Cuba. 
In  central  Mississippi  we  saw  a  ragged  palm, 
and  then  a  bayonet  plant,  and,  about  Pontchar- 
train  in  the  moonlight,  the  Spanish  moss;  and 
then  in  somnolent,  self-sufficient  New  Orleans, 
the  roses  and  the  perfume  of  its  women  on  the 
street.  I  tell  you  we  stopped  and  looked  back, 
just  as  we  had  raced  to  the  car  window  to  see 


22      THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

the  moss  festooning  a  lonely  cypress  above  a 
bayou.  It  was  the  South  and  its  promise,  and 
we  felt  nearer  the  Fountain,  we,  the  ill  product 
of  the  times — two  spectacled,  irreverent,  philos 
ophizing  spectators.  I  repeat,  we  were  quietly 
tired,  but  we  were  not  cynics.  The  world  is  big, 
and  after  a  bit  one  finds  what  a  miserable  little 
part  of  it  he's  been  worrying  about. 

Yes,  as  Hen  said,  when  we  paddled  that  bor 
rowed  johnboat  down  Harvey's  canal,  which  is 
a  six-mile  cut  from  the  Mississippi  to  Bara- 
taria  bayou,  seven  miles  above  the  city  of  New 
Orleans:  "Old  boy,  we're  off!  This  will  re 
juvenate  you!  It's  good  to  feel  the  cut  of  rude 
winds,  the  pain  of  the  beaten  spray,  the  rough 
edge  of  the  outdoors  smiting  us  as  it  did  Magel 
lan,  Balboa,  or  the  Saxon  sea  kings,  rather  than 
the  crabbed,  unhappy  pain  of  towns  and  house 
people!  Give  me  the  slant  of  the  rain,  the  tug 
ging  blast,  the  roughness  of  the  earth,  and  a 
bed  under  the  stars!" 

Very  good.  Only  he  forgot  to  mention  the 
deep-sea-going  mosquitoes,  the  thundering  big 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  23 

mosquitoes  of  Barataria  which  can  bite  through 
steel  plate  and  make  any  bed  under  the  stars  a 
puddle  of  profanity.  The  first  night  I  counted 
twenty-eight  mosquitoes  on  a  piece  of  Hen  not 
as  big  as  a  dollar,  and  they  had  trouble  crowd 
ing  on.  Never  mind,  I  will  not  discourage  any 
body  so  early. 

So  we  went  on  in  that  borrowed  johnboat, 
merely  to  be  adventuring  while  we  waited  for 
our  canoe,  Maine-made,  from  Boston.  And  the 
first  night,  after  leaving  Harvey,  and  paddling 
down  the  dank,  smelly  banks  of  the  canal  which 
precluded  sight-seeing,  we  struck  a  tow-steamer 
bringing  in  a  log  raft  half  a  mile  long.  That 
outfit  about  filled  the  canal.  Hen  and  I  pulled 
our  johnboat  up  on  the  raft  to  avoid  being 
crushed,  and  then  it  began  to  rain,  while  we 
were  traveling  backward  at  a  greater  rate  than 
we  had  advanced.  It  rained  an  hour,  and  when 
we  finally  were  able  to  slide  off  the  raft  and  go 
in  free  water,  it  was  dark. 

We  paddled  hopefully  on,  wondering  if  that 
brand-new  camp  outfit  was  really  rain-proof. 


24     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

It  was  all  very  modish  in  the  way  of  magazine 
advertisement  camp  outfits.  There  was  an  eight- 
pound  silk  tent,  seven-by-seven;  two  duffle  bags, 
each  of  which  contained  from  ten  to  fifteen  little 
paraffine  bags  holding  our  groceries;  aluminum 
cooking  things,  and  all  that;  to  say  nothing  of 
the  latest  in  rods,  guns,  tackle.  Now,  I'm  no 
sportsman  of  that  stripe.  My  roughing  was 
done  back  in  the  days  when  a  Western-bred  boy 
counted  his  cartridges  as  gold,  fished  with  a 
nickel  line  and  a  mongrel  hook,  and  would  start 
on  a  trip  with  a  hunk  of  salt  meat  and  a  shirt 
sleeve  filled  with  cornmeal.  Duffle  bags  and 
piffle  sacks  were  unheard  of.  But  Hen  had  all 
of  them  and  more. 

Nothing  will  so  divert  a  man  in  camp  as  two 
dufflle  bags.  He  wants  some  sugar — not  the 
tabloid  saccharine  Hen  had  in  his  khaki  pocket 
for  emergencies,  but  real  sugar-trust  sugar.  So 
he  dives  into  the  duffle  bag.  There  are  seven 
teen  paraffine-coated  bags  in  the  duffle,  each  like 
the  other,  and  the  seeker  unties  each  and  ties 
them  all  up  and  then  concludes  his  sugar  is  in 


The  tow   steamer  finally  passed  us. 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  25 

the  other  duffle  bag.  So  he  lugs  it  out  and  un 
ties  seventeen  more  little  brown  bags,  and  then 
discovers,  at  length,  that  the  sugar  is  not  in  the 
duffle  bags  at  all,  but  in  the  piffle  sack,  or  else 
Hen  is  sitting  on  it.  It's  always  strange  how, 
when  dark  is  coming  and  it's  raining,  what 
you  want  is  in  the  very  last  sack  of  the  other 
duffle,  or  else  isn't  in  either.  Duffle  bags  are 
mighty  strange. 

Well,  finally  we  crawled  up  the  muddy  bank 
of  that  canal  onto  a  small  platform  above  the 
rainy  swamp,  which  held  a  black,  windowless 
shack.  It  leaked,  it  was  full  of  spiders  and  ill 
smells,  and  back  of  it  the  storm  howled  in  the 
cypress.  When  we  lit  a  candle  in  our  patent 
collapsible  lantern,  that  shack  looked  bad.  Up 
home  you  wouldn't  have  housed  a  tramp  cat  in 
it.  It  seemed  a  far  travel  to  the  Fountain.  In 
this  tie-cutter's  shanty  we  cooked  a  mulligan, 
and  then  spread  blankets  on  the  muddy  moss  of 
the  floor  and  tried  to  sleep.  The  mosquitoes 
came  in  hordes,  and  noisy  bugs  crawled  out  of 
the  cracks,  and  lizards  raced  about  the  blankets. 


26     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Outside  the  owls  hooted,  the  mournfulest  sound 
that  two  seekers  of  the  Well  of  Youth  ever 
tackled. 

It  made  you  old  to  listen  to  all  those  eerie 
swamp  noises.  And  the  mosquito  cloud  thick 
ened  and  the  rain  beat  harder  and  leaked 
through,  and  finally  with  the  boom  of  the  owls 
and  the  rush  of  wind  in  the  moss-draped  cypress, 
Hen  and  I  got  up  and  lit  a  fire  on  the  floor  and 
sat  there,  each  wondering  to  himself,  whose  fool 
idea  this  was,  anyhow.  We  remembered  last 
night's  comfortable  camp  on  the  levee  at  Har 
vey  and  the  hospitable  deputy  sheriff  who 
strolled  in  and  held  up  an  Italian  vegetable 
man,  compelling  him  to  disgorge  the  best  stuff 
he  had  for  our  commissary.  When  we  wanted 
to  pay,  the  deputy  waved  the  peddier  airily  on. 
"  That's  all  right.  What  I  say,  goes.  I  like 
you,  suh,  and  this  yere's  the  free  state  o'  Bara- 
taria.  The  hull  swamp  is  yours ! " 

That  first  night  in  it,  we'd  have  traded  it  off 
"unsight,  unseen,"  as  the  kids  say.  We  didn't 
sleep,  The  racket  of  that  storm,  the  yowling 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  27 

of  the  owls  each  minute  nearer,  and  the  heaving 
of  the  shack  on  its  flimsy  frame  above  the  black 
bayou,  and  the  mosquitoes  which  one  could  see 
like  a  gray  cloud  just  outside  the  range  of  our 
smudge,  didn't  conduce.  Near  daylight,  when 
the  gale  fell  and  the  moss  ceased  its  switching 
on  the  walls,  we  wrapped  tightly  in  our  blankets 
and,  with  nothing  but  noses  to  the  air — and  the 
mosquitoes — slept. 

But  our  noses — Oh,  our  noses !  Heaven  must 
be  a  place  where  nothing  ever  bites  one. 

The  next  morning  we  crawled  out  of  that 
black  box  to  a  scene  of  beauty.  You'll  have  to 
see  a  cypress  swamp,  moss-hung,  set  with  pal- 
mettoes,  perfumed  with  magnolia,  all  a-glitter 
in  the  sun,  to  understand.  And  through  it  ran 
the  canal  like  a  bright  arrow.  The  mocking 
birds  and  blackbirds  were  singing,  and  the  cardi 
nals  flitting  like  bits  of  red  flannel  in  the  breeze. 
It  was  all  good,  and  we  felt  better.  We  washed 
and  had  eggs  and  coffee,  discovering  meantime 
that,  despite  all  our  careful  elimination  of  super 
fluities  for  that  painfully  scientific,  aluminum- 


28      THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

tabloid-duffle-bag-and-piffle  kit,  we  had  three 
hair  brushes  aboard.  Two  baldheaded  men 
with  three  hair  brushes  down  in  the  Barataria 
swamps!  But  already  we  felt  rejuvenated  a  bit. 
We  decided  to  keep  three  hair  brushes — who 
could  tell  what  a  draught  at  the  Fountain 
would  do? 

After  breakfast  we  sat  on  the  black  platform 
and  smoked.  The  beautiful,  sprawly  swamp 
about  us  steamed  and  flickered.  The  scarlet 
tanagers  and  mocking  birds  darted  here  and 
there,  and  the  brilliant  chameleons  scampered 
over  our  luggage.  After  a  while  a  noisy  little 
stern-wheeler  came  by  piled  to  the  ears  with  moss 
bales.  She  looked  for  all  the  world  like  an  ani 
mated  feather  duster  and  she  ambled  to  our 
crazy  wharf,  ran  out  a  line,  and  hailed  us 
genially. 

The  crew  were  a  Cajun-Italio-Filipino  outfit 
from  the  lower  lakes,  a  lea'n-shanked,  hatchet- 
jawed  lot,  who  at  once  began  to  make  coffee 
over  our  fire.  And  while  we  were  explaining 
about  owls  and  mosquitoes  and  camera  and  gun 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  29 

that  would  shoot  I-don't-know-how-many-times, 
and  the  aluminum  cooking  pans,  along  came 
another  moss-boat,  and  blessed  if  it  didn't  throw 
us  a  line,  quit  its  business,  and  start  to  make 
coffee  over  our  fire,  every  man  jack  of  the  two 
crews  jabbering,  gesticulating,  fingering  our 
scientific  kit,  calling  one  another  to  run,  look, 
listen. 

Talk?  You  never  heard  so  much  multi-speed 
conversation.  And  we  all  made  coffee,  over  and 
over  again,  coffee  so  strong  it  stained  the  cups, 
as  black  as  tar,  stimulating  as  brandy  of  '73. 
We,  the  hosts,  lectured  ably  on  every  feature 
of  our  celebrated  camp  kit.  We  drank  coffee 
with  each  and  f(  bon  soired"  and  bowed  and 
felicitated.  When  the  visitors  departed,  Hen 
threw  himself  on  his  duffle  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Old  top,  is  traveling  down  here  to  be  a  con 
tinual  social  function?  Talk? — I  never  knew 
there  was  so  much  language !" 

Then  on  down  the  moss-hung  and  glittering 
tidal  stream  we  paddled.  Once  an  alligator 
poked  his  snout  inquiringly  out  of  the  reeds,  and 


30     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Hen  began  to  assemble  his  automatic  rifle,  which 
would  shoot  I  don't  know  how  many  times.  I 
got  out  our  copy  of  the  Louisiana  game  laws 
to  see  if  alligators  were  in  season. 

"Game  laws,  nothing!"  said  Hen.  "Didn't 
the  deputy  tell  us  this  was  the  free  State  of 
Barataria,  and  anything  goes?  Ain't  we  headed 
right  down  into  the  haunts  of  Jean  La  Fitte  and 
the  buccaneers?  Can  you  imagine  Captain  Kidd 
reading  up  the  game  laws  to  see  if  it  was  the 
closed  season  for  Spanish  treasure?  Me  for  that 
'gator!" 

Then  we  stood  up  in  the  johnboat  and 
I  waved  the  game  laws  and  Hen  his  automatic. 

"Steady  her!"  yelled  Hen,  and  pulled  the 
trigger,  once,  twice. 

Nothing  happened  except  that  Barataria  alli 
gator  winked  an  eye  lazily  as  the  johnboat 
floated  past  his  starboard  bow. 

"  Snap — snap !  "  went  Hen's  highly  modern 
rifle  again.  "  I'm  a  son-of-a-gun,"  he  mur 
mured. 

"  Right  on  that  seat  by  you,"  I  said,  "  is  quite 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  31 

a  pile  of  screws  and  things  which  you  took  out 
of  that  rifle's  innards  and  never  put  back." 

"  Couldn't  find  any  place  for  'em,"  retorted 
Hen.  "And — holy  banana!  See,  there's  a 
string  tied  to  that  alligator!" 

Up  on  the  swamp  edge  now  I  saw  a  picka 
ninny  staring  at  us  with  round,  wide  eyes.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  meal  sack  with  holes  cut  in  the 
corners  for  his  arms  to  stick  through.  And  he 
held  &  rotten  rope,  the  other  end  of  which  ap 
peared  to  be  attached  to  the  submarine  structure 
of  that  four-foot  alligator. 

"Hi,  boy!"  I  yelled.  "Look  out  for  that 
'gator!" 

"  He  won't  hurt  nuffin,  boss.  Ah  hung  him 
out  heah  to  see  if  he  done  won't  catch  hisself 
some  breakfus'.  Mammy  says  he  done  eat  mo* 
eround  de  house  dan  fou'  houn'  dawgs,  and  Ah 
gotter  make  him  work  fo'  his  livin'." 

"  Can  you  beat  it?"  gasped  Hen,  turning  to 
me  perspiringly. 

"  If  he  don't  wiggle  hisself  pretty  soon  Ah'll 
sho'  haul  him  asho'  and  give  him  a  beatin'.  Dat 


32      THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

lazy  'gator  don't  do  nuffin  but  hang  eround  de 
do'  step  waitin'  fo'  me  to  gin  him  a  ham  bone." 

Hen  laid  down  his  automatic  and  picked  up 
his  paddle.  "  Get  out  of  here,"  he  muttered. 
"  This  is  no  place  for  a  sportsman's  son!  'Gator 
on  a  string  sucking  a  ham  bone !  Oh,  my  degen 
erate  wilderness!  I  reckon  if  we  run  onto  a 
bear  down  below  he'll  be  turning  a  hand- 
organ!  " 

We  hurried  on  around  a  bend  to  get  away 
from  that  ham-bone  alligator.  It  was  a  peace 
ful  spot,  and  we  floated  while  Hen  began  to  re 
assemble  his  automatic  gun  that  would  shoot  I 
don't  know  how  many  times.  We  discovered  a 
venerable  colored  citizen  sitting  on  a  log  fishing 
for  perch. 

*  Whe'  you-all  gemmen  gwine? "  he  inquired 
reasonably. 

"We  don't  know,"  responded  Hen.  "But 
how  do  we  get  there? " 

"  Yo'  keep  on  a-gwine.  Dat  Tiger  boat  she 
come  erlong  dis  evenin'  and  pick  yo'  up.  Dey's 
gwine  to  be  a  ball  down  below.  Dat  Tiger  boat 


We   inquired   the   way. 


WE  TAKE  A   CHANCE  33 

she's  a-comin'  loaded  with  lumber  an'  ladies." 
Lumber  and  ladies  1    "  Hooray  for  the  ball! " 
I  said. 

But  Hen  looked  peeved.  That  ham-bone  alli 
gator  had  knocked  all  the  romance  out  of  Bara- 
taria,  the  beautiful,  for  him. 

"  If  I  hadn't  left  all  those  screws  out  of  my 
gun,"  he  growled,  "  I'd  have  soaked  that  nig 
ger's  gator  so  he'd  never  want  ham-bones  any 
more.  As  for  ladies  and  balls,  I  decline.  I 
came  here  for  sport — and  more  hair.  For  pirate 
treasure  and  a  stomach  that  will  start  without 
cranking.  And  tarpon  and  anything  else  irij 
season  or  out.  I'll  show  these  natives  some 
thing.  Why,  a  real  live  sportsman  never  hit 
this  region ! " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  OLD  PIRATE  FOLKSES 

WE  rowed  the  leaky  johnboat  more  hope 
ful  miles  out  of  the  canal  into  winding 
Bayou  Barataria;  Barataria,  the  un 
kempt  and  the  beautiful,  stretching  out  to  the 
great  network  of  waterways  and  sunken  forests 
and  brilliant  salt  prairies  to  the  Gulf;  Bara 
taria,  the  lawless,  with  its  dim  traditions  of 
thriftless  gold  and  bloody  romance.  The 
ragged  cypress  with  their  evil  knees  jutting  out 
of  the  black  swamp  water  were  on  either  side, 
and  back  of  them  the  wilderness  of  latanier 
palms,  tupelo  gum,  oaks,  swamp  maples,  cane, 
and  mangrove,  all  matted  with  the  impenetrable 
creepers,  flower-hung  and  sweet-smelling.  At 
noon  we  crawled  up  on  a  plank  that  made  up 
the  wharf  before  a  shack  set  on  piles  above  the 
sunken  bank,  ate  a  snack,  and  slumbered  peace 
fully. 

34 


THE    OLD   PIE  ATE  FOLKSES    35 

"  Where  you  going? "  queried  Hen,  somno 
lently,  after  a  bit. 

"  I  don't  know.    Where  are  you?  " 

"Blessed  if  I  know!  What's  the  use?  It's 
fine  and  sunny." 

It  was.  We  relaxed.  We  breathed  in  that 
"  wind  up  from  Cuba,"  under  the  glory  of  a 
Louisiana  springtime  sky,  and  you  could  not 
have  bribed  us  away  from  the  content  we  had 
found.  It  was  as  if  old  Mother  Nature  had 
passed  her  hand  above  us  and  murmured: 
"  Peace." 

Actually,  I  could  feel  my  hair  sprout. 

So  Hen  and  I  with  the  borrowed  johnboat 
and  our  duffles  and  piffles  journeyed  on  to  the 
Fountain.  We  were  overtaken  by  another 
wheezy  little  stern-wheeler  that  afternoon  which 
gave  us  a  tow  and  hauled  us  deeper  into  the 
wilderness.  The  three  Cajuns  of  the  crew  bid 
us  thrice  welcome.  They  were  a  happy  lot, 
these  bayou  boatmen.  Crabs,  fish,  moss,  pelts 
— credulous,  irresponsible,  gentle-mannered — 
their  seasonal  living  came  easily,  and  its  isola 
tion  gave  them  their  character. 


86     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

On  Bayou  Villere,  where  the  trade-boat  left 
us,  as  it  turned  off  across  Lake  Salvador,  the 
great  brackish  tide-water  to  the  westward,  we 
met  another  lanky  pantalooned  native,  paddling 
lazily  in  from  his  muskrat  traps.  I  ceased 
rowing  to  ask  about  campsites,  and  he  looked 
amiably  doubtful.  Two  men  paddling  around 
in  a  boat  for  pleasure! 

Le  nom  de  Dieu!  What  next?  We  had 
come  down  from  New  Orleans — for  pleasure! 

"N'Awlyins?  My  f adder  he  say  dat  fine 
town.  Wan  time  my  fadder  he  tak  hees  own 
crabs  up  dere.  Eheu!  My  fadder  hee  say  dat 
N'Awlyins  town  got  mo'  people  den  mos'  all 
La  Fourche!  Hee  say  dey  mo'  boats — sacre, 
dem  boats!  You-all  know  dat  Tiger  boat?  My 
fadder  say  wan  of  dem  N'Awlyins  boats  eat  up 
dat  Tiger  boat  lak  wan  leetle  shrimp.  Some 
time  I  go  up  and  see  dat  N'Awlyins  town." 

Less  than  thirty  miles  away,  he  had  never 
seen  the  city!  He  would  trap  lazily  in  the  great 
salt  marshes,  crab  lazily  in  the  spring,  pick  moss 
lazily  in  summer,  finding  a  turtle  now  and  then, 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKSES    37 

or  a  'gator  to  trade  to  the  store-boat;  and  Sun 
day  he  would  play  "  beeg  dog  "  on  the  gallery 
and  glance  at  the  girls  in  their  gowns  who  go 
by  single  file  on  the  two-plank  walk  that  strag 
gled  along  the  bayou  side  from  house  to  house. 
Back  of  this  narrow  strip  rises  the  frowning 
cypress  wall;  in  front,  the  slow-moving  bayou. 
The  sun  shines,  the  children  play,  the  old  men 
mend  the  seines;  and  past  come  the  red-sailed 
luggars  from  Grand  Isle,  cypress  rafts  from  the 
deep  swamp,  trade-boats  bound  for  the  great 
river  to  the  North  which  flows  many  feet  above 
the  level  of  Barataria  roof -trees.  The  "  Free 
State "  !  So  it  has  been  since  their  fathers 
fought  and  smuggled  with  Jean  La  Fitte. 
Yankees  may  come  and  go  with  their  chatter 
about  reclaiming  land  and  deepening  channels, 
but  the  Baratarians  shrug  and  stir  their  coffee. 
Eh?  God  is  good — He  will  see  to  it  that  there 
is  always  a  mink  to  trap  and  a  crab  to  catch — 
and  the  sun  will  shine,  and  the  salt  tide  move. 
Tres  bien? 

The  first  time  we  had  a  chance  to  put  up  that 


38     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

painfully  new  silk  tent — crackly  as  a  girl  grad 
uate's  white  skirt — was  when  we  cast  the  John- 
boat  loose  on  Bayou  Villere,  called  "adieus" 
and  ff  bon  soirs  "  to  the  gentle-mannered  crew, 
and  paddled  west  to  Lake  Salvador.  It  was  a 
darkling  night  and  the  low  dank  jungle  of 
prairie  cane  and  squatty  cypress  on  the  inun 
dated  banks  offered  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a 
camp.  We  had  left  the  last  inhabitable  land 
behind  at  a  tumble-down  old  plantation,  wreck 
of  the  war  and  the  ceaseless  strife  with  the  en 
croaching  Gulf  waters,  its  three  thousand  acres 
of  former  rice  and  sugar  land,  its  quarters  for 
four  hundred  slaves,  sugar  houses,  canals,  grown 
to  jungle,  the  huge,  overshot  irrigating  wheel 
for  the  rice  lands  all  a  mournful  monument  of 
past  glories. 

Berthaud's  was  one  of  the  three  or  four  plan 
tations  from  New  Orleans  to  the  Gulf  which 
await  modern  engineering  to  reclaim  its  fabu 
lously  fertile  arpents.  Now  it  was  given  over  to 
the  trappers  and  turtle  catchers,  its  legends  of 
La  Fitte's  treasure,  and  the  slave  ship  scuttling; 


THE  OLD  PIRATE  FOLKSES     39 

and  the  last  of  the  Berthauds  lie  under  the  tan 
gle  of  vines  covering  the  shell  mound  which 
raises  their  graves  above  the  tides.  The  pirates 
made  it  a  rendezvous  for  their  trade  of  ill-gotten 
goods  with  the  Orleanians  until  Jackson  sum 
moned  La  Fitte  to  his  aid  at  the  battle  of  Chal- 
mette;  and  with  his  amnesty,  after  the  victory, 
the  buccaneer  gave  up  his  Barataria  strongholds 
and  left  American  territory,  to  be  sent  to  the 
bottom  in  1821  by  an  English  sloop-of-war  off 
Galveston. 

The  great  plantation  was  deserted  enough 
now.  As  we  rounded  the  oak-clustered  point  to 
the  lake  we  saw,  in  a  mud-chimneyed  hut,  a 
woman's  Afric  face — the  nostrils  wide,  the  tilted 
chin — in  her  eyes  the  scorn  of  the  beaten,  for, 
after  all,  with  our  platitudinous  amendments 
and  proclamations,  the  negroes  are  a  subject 
and  an  alien  race.  We  recalled  the  drawling 
hospitality  of  a  deputy  up  the  river :  "  When 
you-all  get  back  in  June  we'll  try  to  hang  a 
nigger  for  you,  if  the  boys  ain't  too  busy." 

It  was  evening  when  we  pulled  up  at  Old 


40     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Spanish  Man's  Point.  The  broad  bayou  wid 
ened  here  to  the  lake,  and  behind  the  scrubby 
oaks  the  prairie  cane  stretched  to  the  gray  and 
somber  forest  wall  a  mile  away.  Nowhere  the 
shelly  bank  rose  ten  inches  above  the  black 
water,  but  we  were  astonished  to  find  that  here, 
on  the  only  bit  of  soil,  a  ragged  little  garden 
sprang.  Potatoes,  radishes,  melon  vines — we 
crushed  down  a  corner  of  the  reedy  point  and 
pitched  the  tent  within  a  foot  of  the  neat  little 
rows.  We  wondered  at  that  garden  all  the  time 
we  were  cutting  palmettoes  for  a  bed  and  diving 
down  in  those  duffles  for  bacon  and  bread  and 
tabloid  tea  and  sugar.  And  at  sunset  we  had  a 
caller.  Down  the  bayou  came  a  big  crazy  skiff, 
black  and  leaky,  the  feathered  old  oar  blades 
nailed  to  saplings  and  tied  to  the  craft  with 
twine;  and  in  it,  standing  upright,  pushing  on 
the  oars,  was  Old  Man  Captain  Johnson.  We 
made  his  acquaintance  at  once — it  was  his  gar 
den!  He  bumped  his  old  boat  ashore  and  came 
to  the  tent  in  some  shy  suspicion.  We  apolo 
gized  for  intruding. 


The  trappers   paddle   from   the  deep   swamp. 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKSES    41 

"  Neveh  mind  that,"  retorted  Mr.  Johnson. 
"  I  saw  you  boys  passin'  this  way  and  I  follehed. 
I  wondered  what  you-all  was  a  headin'  out  in 
the  lake  fo'  with  a  stawm  comin'  up.  Man,  you 
can't  camp  on  this  point  if  she  blows — you'll  be 
blowed  clean  off  in  the  swamp !  And  the  wateh 
— have  to  keep  rubber  shoes  on  them  'taters  of 
mine  when  a  nor- wester  comes  I  " 

We  thanked  him  and  explained.  He  seemed 
incredulous — his  chuckle  came — a  little  dry  old 
man  with  a  little  dry  old  chuckle.  What  had 
once  been  a  pair  of  old  hip  boots  was  tied  to 
his  feet  with  twine;  he  wore  a  shirt  that  he'd 
certain  brought  from  the  Surrender;  and  at  his 
heels  were  two  mongrel  hound  pups.  A  hun 
gry  outfit,  but  picturesque — it  took  some  time 
to  find  the  heart  of  gold  in  this  old  drifter, 
swamper,  treasure  hunter,  veteran  of  Lee's 
ragged  and  immortal  host,  but  we  found  it.  He 
looked  over  our  sporting-goods  catalogue  outfit 
in  silence.  If  such  a  thing  as  a  collapsible,  alu 
minum  frying  pan  and  telescope  cups,  jointed 
rods  and  reels  had  ever  penetrated  Barataria,  it 


42     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

was  before  Old  Man  Captain  came  down  from 
the  Delta  country  to  find  La  Fitte's  gold. 

We  watched  his  gentle  eyes  rove  over  the 
impedimenta — we  had  been  taken  for  fortune 
tellers,  traveling  doctors,  engineers,  detectives, 
in  the  forty-eight  hours  since  we  came  into  the 
bayous — and  up  at  Harvey  the  boys  gathered 
about,  bringing  nickels  to  the  tent  "  fo'  the 
show "  of  which  there  was  none  unless  it  was 
Hen  trying  to  flip  a  mule-colored  flapjack  in  a 
thirty-mile  wind  down  the  levee.  But  Old  Man 
Captain  capped  the  bayous'  verdict.  "  I  reck 
on,"  he  murmured,  picking  up  Hen's  silver- 
mounted  reel,  listening  to  the  click,  "  you-all  air 
goin'  to  find  the  big  hide-up  shu'  with  this  di- 
vinin'  rod ! J> 

He  sighed  and  turned  to  look  at  his  muddy 
skiff  and  two  lean  pups.  "  I  reckon  that  there 
old  Pirate  tu'n  right  up  in  his  grave  when  you 
wiggle  that  patent  stick  oveh  him."  He  mo 
tioned  back  in  the  oak  scrub.  And  then  we  saw, 
beneath  the  sprawling  oak,  a  low  mound  among 
the  palmettoes — neat,  white-shelled,  a  stick  at 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKSES    43 

the  foot.  "  Them  old  pirate  folkses  gin  right 
up  if  they  see  you  boys  come  fritterin'  around 
with  you'  treasure  machine." 

Old  Man  Johnson  went  on  to  tell  this  was 
the  last  of  Jean  La  Fitte's  men,  buried  on  this 
point  some  forty  years  ago.  The  story  is  that 
in  his  extreme  age  Armand  Pelletier  got  drunk 
in  New  Orleans  and  betrayed  the  secret  of  La 
Fitte's  big  "  hide-up  "  to  some  strangers  who 
later  came  to  his  shanty  on  Spanish  Man's 
Point  and  helped  the  buccaneer  search  for  the 
exact  spot.  At  any  rate,  to-day  you  can  see 
the  excavations  in  the  shells;  as,  indeed,  every 
likely  foot  of  Lake  Salvador's  shores  and  all 
the  bayous  from  Grand  Terre  to  Butte  la  Rose 
have  their  diggings  and  their  traditions.  But  the 
Baratarians  say  that  one  night,  knowing  Pelle- 
tier's  weakness,  the  strangers  sent  him  down  the 
bayou  to  get  a  cask  of  wine,  and  on  his  return, 
drunk,  they  got  him  drunker,  and  when  he  re 
covered,  they  had  gone — and  the  treasure  hole 
was  deeper,  the  "hide-up"  stolen!  Twenty 
thousand  dollars,  old  Pelletier  swore  they  got, 


44     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

and  he  stayed  on  the  Point  with  his  demijohns 
and  legends,  until  he  died  and  the  wild  hogs 
ate  him.  Captain  Johnson's  neat  little  mound 
hid  the  rest.  "  Sorteh  fixed  it  up,"  apologized 
the  old  rebel  gently,  "  I  reckon  he  wa'n't  such 
a  heap  bad  pirate  afteh  all,  only  bad  fo'  liqueh!  " 

The  Captain  took  coffee  with  us  and  put  off 
in  his  unwieldy  skiff  to  his  home  in  an  old  house 
boat  half  a  mile  down  the  bayou.  "  My  old 
shack  went  asho'  in  the  big  stawm,  and  I  took 
to  gardenin',"  he  said,  "and  you  boys  betteh 
come  down  and  camp  with  me  befo'  she  blows 
up  here." 

But  we  declined.  We  slept  the  sleep  of  the 
just  and  mosquito-bitten,  despite  the  lizards 
racing  about  the  dry  palmettoes  of  our  bed,  and 
awoke  to  the  loveliness  of  a  Louisiana  spring 
morning.  In  the  old  oak  above  the  pirate's 
grave,  the  blackbirds  and  the  cardinals  called 
and  flitted,  the  lake  lay  like  a  mirror,  and  Old 
Man  Johnson's  blow  had  not  left  a  shadow 
across  the  lustrous  sky.  Cajun  coffee,  as  the 
bayou  men  showed  us,  and  eggs,  and  bread — 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKSES    45 

what  a  feed!  We  were  on  the  last  of  it  when 
Captain  Johnson  came  yawing  round  the  bend 
with  that  vast  leaky  tub  of  his — how  the  little 
old  man  worked  it  at  all  was  a  mystery.  He 
was  bashful  as  a  girl  when  we  hailed  him,  and 
brought  him  ashore  for  coffee.  He  was  "  run- 
nin' "  a  crab  line  and  just  pulled  up  to  see  how 
we  slept.  And  while  we  gossiped  and  had  more 
coffee,  two  pirogues  of  the  muskrat  trappers 
stole  out  of  the  reedy  banks  and  drew  down  on 
us.  They  saw  the  coffee  dripper  and  came 
ashore.  Neither  of  the  Creoles  knew  a  word  of 
English,  but  coffee  is  interpretative  down  Bara- 
taria  way.  We  made  another  potful  and 
smiled;  they  drank  another  potful  and  smiled, 
and  waved  muskrat  skins  and  commented  and 
examined  again  that  wonderful  outfit  from 
treasure  rods  to  Hen's  brand  new  camera  which 
had  all  the  modern  hyphenated  attachments. 
Then  more  coffee,  and  we  all  stretched  lazily  in 
the  shade  by  the  pirate's  grave  and  conversed 
unintelligibly  but  with  animation.  Another 
trapper  came  later;  therefore,  another  pot  was 


46     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

dripped.  This  chap  knew  some  English — he 
was  a  traveled  person;  had  been  to  N'Awlyins 
and  to  "Mawgan  City." 

He  was  a  man  of  affairs,  too — he  had  an  uncle 
who  ran  a  potato  boat  on  La  Fourche,  though  he 
himself,  after  the  manner  of  the  Cajuns,  pre 
ferred  to  sell  crabs  at  ten  cents  a  basket  and 
buy  potatoes  at  forty,  notwithstanding  that  the 
backyard  of  each  of  the  little  places  along  Bara- 
taria  was  rich  vegetable  mould  that  would  raise 
anything  except  the  exertions  of  the  inhabitants. 
Back  of  the  "  forty  arpent  line  "  no  Baratarian 
would  venture  save  in  his  picayune  trapping 
and  turtling.  We  met  our  friend — indeed,  all 
of  them — that  "  evening  "  at  the  store  down  the 
bayou,  when  the  fishers  and  trappers  and  moss- 
ers  gathered  for  their  afternoon.  The  children 
play  among  the  skiffs  and  pirogues  hauled  on 
the  bank,  while  the  men  watch  the  luggars  and 
intermittent  crab  boats  crawl  past  on  their  way 
to  the  big  river  to  the  North. 

Here,  one  of  them  enlarged  superiorly  be 
fore  his  fellows  and  to  us  on  the  benefits  of 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKS ES    47 

knowing  the  English.  "My  f adder,  he  know; 
my  mudder,  she  know.  She  say  dat  way  to  get 
reech  queek.  My  fadder  he  tell  me  wan  time 
in  de  woh  he  up  to  Plaquemine  in  hees  boat  and 
he  see  come  drift  down  river  wan  beeg  barge. 
She  all  load  wif  cot',  and  wan  Yankee  sat  on 
dat  cot'  all  alone.  My  fadder,  he  had  rifle  and 
he  t'ink:  *  Now  I  get  reech  queek! '  He  go  up 
along  dat  barge  piled  so  high  wif  cot'  and  he 
call  to  dat  Yank :  *  You  get  down  or  I  shoot 
it ! '  Dat  Yank  whistle,  and  up  come  'bout  five 
hundred  Yank!  My  fadder,  he  wan  su'prised 
man!  He  tried  to  explain  to  dat  Captain  he 
only  foolin'.  But  dat  Captain  he  no  understand 
my  fadder,  what  he  say.  He  get  tired,  he  say: 
'  Here,  you,  I  got  wan  man  to  teach  you  Eng 
lish  'fo'  you  talk  me! '  And  he  put  my  fadder 
in  jail  wif  a  Creole  nigger  named  Salvator,  give 
'im  wan,  two,  tree  days  learn  English  or  he 
shoot.  My  ole  man  he  kept  dat  nigger  up  all 
night,  tree  nights,  by  Gar,  learnin'  dat  English! 
You  bet,  he  never  forgot  dat  English.  Dat's 
why  I  wan  educated  man.  My  fadder,  he  say: 


48     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

'  Steve,  you  learn  to  spek  'fo'  you  try  to  get 
reech  queek  wif  Yankees  1  * " 

We  loitered  among  the  friendly  folk  upon 
their  doorsteps  along  the  single  street.  Three 
more  "  sto's  "  in  the  straggling  line  of  houses, 
each  with  its  raised  walk  above  high  water  lead 
ing  back  to  the  threshold.  They  all  knew  us — 
the  notoriety  of  a  stranger,  and  on  such  an  obvi 
ously  ridiculous  mission  as  "  pleasure,"  had 
spread  to  every  ear.  Their  unbelief  was  almost 
frank.  Ole  Man  Captain  told  us  soon  enough 
that  his  Creole  neighbors  thought  us  either  de 
tectives  or  fortune  tellers,  or  secret  surveyors. 
Pleasure? — Mon  Dieu,  would  a  man  come  down 
the  bayou  in  a  johnboat  for  pleasure?  Would 
he  not  rather  go  about  the  nickel  shows  in 
N'Awlyins?  That  was  a  pleasant  lie  to  conceal 
some  purpose.  Also  the  fame  of  our  mysteri 
ous  apparatus  in  the  little  green  silk  tent  was 
abroad.  Even  Old  Man  Captain  sanctioned 
that — a  divining  rod  for  the  treasure  of  La 
Fitte!  Thence  on  in  marsh  or  cypress  glade 
many  an  eye  peered  out  on  our  innocent  camp 
on  Bayou  Villere. 


An   oak   that   sheltered   the   buccaneers   of  Barataria. 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKSES    49 

It  was  resolved  the  next  day  that  Hen  should 
go  back  to  New  Orleans  on  a  quest  of  the  miss 
ing  canoe.  I,  meantime,  yielded  to  Captain 
Johnson's  fears  that  a  norther  would  blow  me 
off  the  Point — or  was  it  his  fear  lest  I  secretly 
go  to  digging  for  Pelletier's  hide-up? — and 
moved  camp  down  the  bayou  to  his  stranded 
houseboat.  I  was  willing  to  go — to  the  west 
stretched  the  wide  and  uninhabited  lake,  not  a 
soul  on  all  its  sunken  shores,  and  the  weather 
was  dark.  While  I  was  piling  stuff  in  the  skiff, 
Hen  having  taken  the  borrowed  johnboat  back 
to  New  Orleans  by  a  passing  steamer,  I  heard 
the  Captain  threshing  in  the  palmettoes  about 
the  pirate's  grave. 

When  I  came  on  him  he  was  holding  an  enor 
mous  king  snake  by  the  tail  and  paddling  him 
gently  with  a  potato  vine,  chiding  as  one  would 
a  child.  "  Darn  yo — I'll  pester  yo' — told  yo'  to 
stay  in  them  melon  vines  and  keep  them  moc 
casins  chased  out  o'  yere !  Now  yo'  git  back  and 
hustle!"  With  that  he  threw  the  six-foot  Mr. 
King  half  across  the  garden  and  turned  to  speak 
to  me. 


50     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

"  Got  to  lam  him  a  little,"  he  complained,  "  or 
he  gets  lazy  as  pizen! " 

But  the  next  sunny  morning  I  saw  the  Cap 
tain's  pet  stretched  ruminatingly  out  on  the 
shell  grave,  an  indifferent  pupil,  indeed. 

I  put  in  an  idle  four  days  while  Hen  was 
away.  The  threatened  norther  splashed  down 
on  us  the  second  night,  and  when  the  waves 
began  to  hurry  across  the  six  feet  of  shell  dirt 
between  me  and  the  old  trapper's  stranded  boat, 
I  was  glad  I  was  away  from  Spanish  Man's 
Point.  The  Captain  had  insisted  that  I  bunk 
in  with  him,  but  when  I  saw  the  inside  of  his 
leaky  shack  fourteen  feet  by,  perhaps,  eight,  and 
in  it  his  cookstove,  bunk,  two  dogs,  traps,  hides, 
table,  and  accumulation  of  old  clothes,  nets,  and 
whatnot,  black  with  smoke  and  grease,  and  aired 
by  a  nine-inch  window,  I  preferred  the  tent. 

We  had  piled  the  palmetto  and  moss  high  in 
it,  but  by  midnight  I  heard  the  soft  lap — lap  of 
the  water  driven  by  the  gale  under  the  canvas. 
And  all  night  and  day  the  little  tent  of  eight 
pounds'  weight  ballooned  like  a  paper  bag  in 
the  storm,  but  bravely  shut  out  wind  and  rain 


THE   OLD  PIRATE  FOLKSES    51 

alike.  But  the  storm  did  one  noble  service — 
not  a  mosquito  bothered  one  of  all  the  invad 
ing  hosts  the  other  evenings  brought. 

Old  Man  Captain  Johnson  and  I  had  some 
rare  fraternizing  over  his  old  wood  stove  those 
stormy  days  while  the  cane  rattled  on  the  sides 
of  his  shack.  He  complained  that  some  of  the 
Creoles  had  taken  away  his  short  ladder.  "  I 
need  that  laddeh,  fo'  whenever  it  rains  I  have  to 
get  up  and  put  clay  on  this  roof."  Also  he 
gently  grieved  against  his  livelihood:  "  Lost  ma 
crab  line  in  the  last  blow;  that  boat  trader  wants 
a  dolleh  and  fo'  bits  for  a  new  one.  Where  I 
get  a  dolleh  and  fo'  bits?" 

It  indeed  had  ruined  him,  poor  old  derelict, 
wreck  of  the  Confederacy  cast  up  in  this  pool! 
He  lived  on  crabs  and  fish  and  corn  mush,  never 
tasting  fresh  meat  from  one  month  to  another. 
"  Can't  catch  no  crabs,  fish  don't  bite,  wadin' 
after  moss  gives  me  chills,  and  rat  pelts  ain't 
worth  skinnin'."  He  sighed  gently:  "  Some 
times  I  wondeh  why  I  eve'  left  that  Western 
country." 

That  Western  country!    Through  four  after 


52     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

years  of  his  brave  and  losing  fight  with  fortune 
I  knew  Old  Man  Captain;  on  stormy  lake  and 
deer  trail,  and  by  campfires  under  his  palmetto 
shacks,  and  ever  the  old  romance  came  out  in 
the  tales  of  his  forty  years*  wandering  after  he 
forsook  the  broken  South.  "  Out  in  that  West 
ern  country  " — that  was  the  way  he  began  them 
all.  He  would  seldom  revert  to  ante-bellum 
days. 

"  When  I  come  back  to  Alabama  from  Look 
out  prison,  afteh  the  Surrendeh,  I  was  a  boy 
just  seventeen — and  wounded.  My  father  used 
to  work  a  hundred  and  fifty  niggehs.  They 
wasn't  one  there.  House  was  burned,  weeds 
choked  the  cotton  fields,  and  the  Yankee  cavalry 
was  runnin'  off  the  rest  of  ou'  poor  stock.  Eve* 
boy  I  used  to  know  in  that  neighborhood  was 
dead  or  gone  just  like  my  folks.  So  I  threw  a 
saddle  on  the  only  horse  the  raiders  had  over 
looked  on  ou'  plantation  and  struck  out  fo'  that 
Western  country.  Fo'ty  years  in  that  Western 
country — then  I  drifted  back  and  farmed  up 
the  river  a  bit.  But  it's  no  place  fo'  a  white 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKSES    53 

man  on  those  big  plantations — a  free  man  and 
a  po'  man.  I  had  a  dream  about  findin'  the  big 
pirates'  hide-up  and  I  come  down  yere.  I  been 
searchin',  boys — reckon  you-all'll  beat  me  with 
that  little  jigger-rod  findin'  that  treasure!" 

Vainly  we  protested  that  we  had  never  heard 
of  the  pirates'  treasure  until  we  came  to  Bara- 
taria.  Old  Man  Captain  smiled  gently.  The 
coincidence  was  too  strong.  Two  mysterious 
strangers  with  maps  and  a  little  "jigger-rod" 
camped  right  on  Old  Spanish  Man's  Point, 
where  the  last  of  La  Fitte's  men  met  his  death! 

"  Reckon,  boys,  they'll  be  enough  f o'  us-all." 
He  watched  the  waves  of  Lake  Salvador  maul 
ing  his  potato  hills  and  roasting  ear  stalks. 
"  Boys,  when  we  find  that  big  hide-up,  we'll 
have  some  fresh  meat  in  this  camp.  Crabs  and 
mush  and  lard  and  coffee  is  good,  but  some  fresh 
hawg-meat — if  we  eve'  find  that  treasure  we  sure 
have  hawg-meat ! " 

After  supper,  as  we  stirred  our  coffee,  Old 
Man  Captain  grew  a  bit  at  ease  with  me  and 
that  fabulous  fishing  rod  of  Hen's.  He  cast  an 


54     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

eye  of  gentle  envy  on  the  leather  case  which  hid 
it. 

"  I  done  went  to  a  medium  woman  up  river 
afteh  I  had  that  dream  and  give  heh  fo'  bits. 
She  told  me  to  buy  a  divinin'  rod  and  come  down 
to  Barataria  and  find  that  treasure.  Yes,  seh, 
she  done  tell  me  about  a  man  in  La  Fourche 
who  had  a  divinin'  rod.  I  come  down  through 
the  bias  and  hunt  that  man  up.  He  wanted  fo' 
dollehs  fo'  his  rod,  and  I  didn't  have  no  fo'  dol- 
lehs.  But  he  done  let  me  go  huntin'  them  pi* 
rates'  hide-ups  with  him.  We  done  went  all 
round  Lake  Salvador  from  the  Temples  to 
Grand  Coquille.  That  rod  it  done  point  no'th, 
and  we  follehed.  It  done  point  wes',  and  we 
follehed.  It  done  point  eas',  but  we  got  into 
the  Barataria  swamps  so  deep  that  that  La 
Fourche  man  he  done  got  scared  and  went  back. 

"  He  offered  to  sell  me  that  rod  for  two  dol 
lehs,  but  I  didn't  have  no  two  dollehs.  It  was 
a  powe'ful  bahgain,  but  I  didn't  have  no  two 
dollehs.  And  just  my  luck,  after  he  quit  I  done 
come  right  slap  onto  Spanish  Man's  Point,  whe' 


THE   OLD   PIRATE  FOLKSES    55 

them  old  pirate  folkses  sure  made  their  big  hide- 
up.  Yes,  seh,  hyar  she  be,  and  you  boys  done 
got  the  little  jigger-rod  to  find  it! " 

Now,  I  leave  it  to  you — what  was  I  to  say? 
I  was  thinking  about  that  the  next  morning 
when  I  heard  the  Creole  trappers  stealing  past 
to  Lake  Salvador  in  their  pirogues,  their  soft 
voices  coming  above  the  dip  of  the  paddles. 
Before  noon  they  were  returning,  and  a  few 
stopped  shyly  to  pass  the  day  with  Old  Man 
Captain.  They  started  their  coffee  fires  in  the 
white  shell  bank,  made  me  presents  of  turtles 
and  crabs,  and  manifested  the  same  polite  curi 
osity  about  these  two  Yankees  who  studied  maps 
and  had  no  particular  business  in  these  parts 
beyond  the  absurd  one  of  "  pleasure." 

Old  Man  Captain  was  off  to  the  cypress 
swamp  before  I  was  up.  He  had  a  "  tote  road  " 
built,  along  which  he  brought  the  black  moss 
that  was  later  sold  to  the  trade  boats.  We 
dined  on  fried  duck  and  turtle — with  eggs. 
Now,  turtle  eggs  are  peculiar.  As  Old  Man 
Captain  put  it,  "  They're  cooked  when  they 


56     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

ain't."  I  didn't  get  much  satisfaction  out  of 
that  entree  of  turtle  eggs.  They  are  strange 
as  Hen's  sporting-goods'  catalogue  idea  of 
camping  out.  You  can't  cook  the  white  of  a 
turtle  egg.  You  simply  can't.  Or  maybe  "  it 
is  when  it  ain't,"  as  Old  Man  Captain  says. 
Turtle  eggs  are  as  peculiar  as  duffle  sacks. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  BAEATARIANS 

HEN  came  back  from  New  Orleans  the 
fourth  day,  disconsolate.  Not  a  word 
of  our  Old  Town  canoe.  The  shipping 
agents  were  as  much  mystified  as  we.  There 
seemed  nothing  to  do  but  stick  around  Old  Man 
Captain's  camp  and  await  it.  Meantime  we 
went  hunting  with  Old  Man  Captain  and  his 
pups,  Ponto  and  Flora.  They  were  "  powerful 
for  turtles,"  and  we  secured  five.  Also  turtle 
eggs — and  we  had  had  turtle  eggs  for  three  days. 
Old  Man  Captain  would  take  his  two  dogs  and 
put  off  through  the  swamp,  Hen  and  I  follow 
ing  with  the  gun  and  camera. 

The  turtles  were  out  on  the  ridges  now  to  lay 
their  everlasting  eggs,  and  presently  we  would 

57 


58     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

hear  Ponto  and  Flora  barking  away  in  a  bit  of 
latanier  palm  scrub.  Over  rotten  logs  and 
shaking  bog  and  under  vines  and  gray  moss 
plumes  hanging  from  the  cypress  we  struggled 
to  come  upon  the  dogs  baying  at  a  perturbed 
Mobilian  who  wanted  to  hasten  back  to  the 
swamp  pools  but  declined  with  the  dogs  bawl 
ing  in  his  face.  Capture  was  simple.  Old  Man 
Captain  merely  turned  the  turtle  on  his  back, 
gagged  him  with  a  bit  of  moss  and  later,  on 
our  return,  strung  him  on  a  pole  which  we  car 
ried  end  and  end  triumphantly  back  to  camp. 

Ponto  and  Flora  were  great  pups,  and  if 
Hen  had  ever  got  his  multi-speed,  bi-chromatic, 
double-action  camera  to  working,  we  would 
have  taken  their  pictures  baying  a  turtle.  But 
Hen's  camera  was  as  accurately  cantankerous 
as  the  automatic  rifle  or  the  duffle  sacks — or  tur 
tle  eggs.  We  read  all  the  directions,  unscrewed 
and  screwed  up  all  the  attachments,  and  still  no 
one  could  make  head  or  tail  of  that  camera. 

The  next  day  the  norther  blew  again — worse 
than  ever.  The  tiny  ridge  of  land  shook  with 


THE  BAEATAEIANS  59 

the  mauling  waves  off  the  lake.  Behind  was  the 
deep  swamp  with  the  backing  waters  of  the 
Gulf  curling  up  inch  by  inch  until  it  was  run 
ning  in  our  tent,  which  tore  and  yanked  at  the 
guy  ropes.  At  sunset,  when  we  were  making 
up  the  damp  blankets,  we  discovered  a  five-foot 
cottonmouth  under  the  palm  leaves  which  had 
served  to  keep  our  bed  out  of  the  water.  There 
was  some  excitement.  We  killed  that  snake  and 
with  a  candle  made  a  hairline  search  of  that  bed, 
I  tell  you.  Old  Man  Johnston  added  to  our 
night's  comfort  by  amiably  remarking:  "OF 
Misteh  Cottonmouth  just  naturally  curious  to 
find  out  what  yo'  tent  is,  so  he  crawl  in.  Yo' 
better  stir  up  yo'  beds  twice  a  day.  Ol'  moc 
casin  done  been  heap  poison  fo'  a  NVthen  man." 

We  certainly  stirred  up  our  beds  often  after 
that! 

The  next  day  was  better.  Hen  went  catfish- 
ing  off  the  log  rafts,  and  I  listened  to  Old  Man 
Captain  expound  religion  as  he  sat  on  the  edge 
of  his  crab  float. 

"  The  Lawd  done  tell  us  His  disciples  went 


60     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

in  sheepskins,  but  sometimes  I  tell  the  Lawd  I 
ain't  even  got  a  sheepskin  to  cover  mah  holi 
ness.  I  live  out  yere  among  the  frawgs  and  the 
bats  and  the  owls  and  the  'gators,  but  I  think 
a  heap,  and  sometimes  I  get  up  o'  nights  and 
walk  back  and  forth  from  the  bia  to  the  swamp 
callin'  on  the  Lawd  if  I  been  Holiness  enough 
for  His  Elect." 

He  eyed  the  two  hound  pups  gulping  the  corn 
bread  he  crumbled  for  them.  "  I  used  to  won- 
deh,  when  I  was  in  the  ahmy,  fo'  I  knew  this 
Nation  was  in  fo'  a  mighty  judgment  fo'  all 
this  killin'  of  Indians  and  slavin'  of  niggers. 
Yes,  seh,  it  was  a  foolish  war.  I  was  in  twenty- 
six  fights  and  wounded  and  a  prisoneh,  and 
when  I  come  home  I  say:  '  Motheh,  I'm  a  Lin 
coln  man  now.'"  He  sighed:  "And  if  that 
man  Lincoln  had  only  lived?" — again  his  sigh 
and  his  blue  eyes  grew  vague — "  I  reckon  I'd 
have  had  heart  to  stay  home  South  instead  of 
drift  out  in  that  Western  country.  He  was  ou' 
friend!" 

Brave,  lonely  soul  building  his  storm-beaten 


THE  BAEATAEIANS  61 

thatch,  fighting  for  his  crop  against  the  en 
croaching  Gulf,  calling  on  God  to  judge  his 
Holiness,  magnanimous  always  in  his  words  for 
the  conquerors  of  the  Lost  South  with  which  he 
had  gone  down  to  ruin — never  in  all  the  years 
of  our  friendship,  did  Old  Man  Captain  fail  us 
in  his  gentleness,  his  honor.  All  that  was  in  his 
palm  thatch,  hung  about  with  traps  and  ragged 
clothes  and  flotsam  he  offered  without  apology, 
without  pretense  or  appeal  to  sympathy.  He 
had  the  clearest,  most  dispassionate  view  of 
some  conditions. 

"  I  come  down  hyar  in  the  swamps,  fo'  I 
wanted  a  place  where  a  man  can  be  a  man.  Up 
in  the  big  plantation  country  the's  no  place  fo' 
a  white  man.  White  man  don't  get  justice 
around  the  big  plantations.  The  planters  don't 
want  no  stranger  who  might  talk  to  their  nig 
gers  too  much.  Yo'  see,  they  work  the  niggers 
at  about  fo'  hundred  per  cent,  on  their  money. 
Niggers  puts  in  a  crop  and  just  befo'  Christmas 
he  wants  a  little  money,  just  as  he's  always  got 
a  little  money  and  some  sto'  stuff  advanced  him. 


62      THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

The  boss  gives  him  a  little  money.  Well,  the 
fool  nigger  he  celebrates  on  his  Christmas 
money,  and  after  January  first  they  take  all 
the  niggers  one  by  one  into  the  office  to  close 
the  year's  account.  The's  fo'  or  five  white  men 
sittin'  round  that  office  and  Mr.  Nigger  sees  a 
gun  or  two  round  handy.  The  clerk  he  figgers 
a  bit  over  his  book,  while  the  nigger  stands  with 
his  hat  off  listenin'.  Pretty  soon  the  boss  takes 
a  paper  from  the  clerk  and  he  says  to  the  nig 
ger:  'Jim,  he's  yo'  year's  due — thirty- fo'  dol- 
lehs.' 

"  The  nigger  he  just  stands  starin'.  '  Thirty- 
fo'  dollehs!  Why,  boss,  that  all  I  got  comin'?' 
Then  if  he  asks  fo'  an  account  the  white  men 
look  peculiar.  Nigger's  eye  is  on  them  guns. 
But  the  boss  reads  off  his  account.  The'  it  all  is. 
Now  the  fool  nigger  neve'  kept  no  account.  He 
can't  read  or  write  and  he  can't  remembeh  what 
he  bought  at  the  sto'.  He  neve'  saw  no  money 
all  yea'.  He  just  traded  in  his  pay  checks. 
Well,  the'  is  Mr.  Nigger,  and  the's  the  fou'  or 
five  white  men  and  a  gun  or  two.  Nigger  don't 


THE  BAEATAEIANS  63 

kick.  He  fiddles  his  hat  a  while  and  goes  off 
with  what  they  give  him.  If  he  kicked,  they'd 
beat  him  up  with  the  butt  of  a  gun  and  tell  folks 
he  got  insolent.  And  he  don't  sue  no  white  man 
either  up  in  that  plantation  country.  Some  nig 
gers  have  sued  white  men — and  they  generally 
disappear  curiously.  Sometimes  they  find  'em 
floatin'  in  the  river.  If  nigger  goes  to  another 
plantation  the  boss  sends  that  account  afteh 
him — and  he  works  it  out. 

"Yes,  seh — clean  slavery  just  as  it  was  in 
Alabama  whe'  my  father  worked  a  hundred  and 
fifty  niggers.  And  it's  no  place  fo'  a  po'  white 
man.  He  ain't  wanted.  He  goes  to  the  plan 
tation  sto'  and  he  has  to  pay  the  nigger  price, 
and  if  he  kicks  he  gets  nigger  justice.  And  the 
nigger  price  is  fo'  hundred  per  cent.,  and  nigger 
justice  is  the  butt  end  of  a  gun.  I'm  one  of 
Lee's  old  men,  and  I  wouldn't  stand  it.  I  come 
down  in  these  hyar  swamps  where  they's  free 
men.  Lots  o'  snakes  and  owls  and  'gators  and 
skeeters,  but  it's  a  white  man's  country!  Yes, 
seh — a  white  man's  country!  " 


64     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Then  he  went  on  with  his  dry  little  chuckle: 
"But  with  you  Yankees  comin'  down  hyar,  I' 
don't  know.  Up  in  the  Delta  they  say  that  if 
any  smart  Yankee  comes  down  the'  with  five 
thousand  dollehs,  in  ten  yea's  he  can  make  fifty 
thousand — out  of  the  niggers.  Fine  country  fo' 
cawn  and  cane  and  cotton,  but  the  principal  in 
dustry  is  niggers ! " 

He  looked  slowly  off  to  the  north:  "But  I 
done  think  if  Abe  Lincoln  had  lived,  he'd  have 
found  some  way  fo'  us  to  live  and  be  square 
together.  Rich  white  men,  po'  white  men,  and 
niggehs.  Yes,  seh,  he  was  po'  white  himself." 

He  told  us  confidentially  of  the  way  the 
swamp  trappers  regarded  us.  He  himself  had 
rather  got  over  the  idea  that  we  were  after  Jean 
La  Fitte's  gold  with  the  little  "jigger-rod," 
having  watched  Hen  thresh  the  bayou  after  the 
voracious  gars. 

"  These  Cajuns  they  think  yo'  detectives. 
These  woods  hide  a  bit  of  men  who  come  down 
in  the  free  state  o'  Barataria  fo'  they  own  rea 
sons.  Or  else  yo'  surveyors.  First  they  thought 


THE  BARATARIANS  65 

yo'  was  runnin'  a  show,  but  yo'  tent  is  too  small. 
They  ain't  scared  of  yo'  findin'  treasure,  f o'  they 
been  diggin'  up  these  shell  mounds  fo'  a  hun 
dred  yea's  themselves." 

The  Cajuns  looked  with  indifferent  eyes  on  the 
efforts  to  reclaim  the  ancient  Berthaud  planta 
tion.  They  had  trapped  and  hunted  over  its 
abandoned  fields  and  in  the  swamps  so  long  that 
they  looked  on  its  eighteen  thousand  acres  as 
their  own.  We  learneji  all  this  when  Hen  went 
down  to  the  old  house  among  the  live  oaks.  He 
came  back  to  say  we  were  invited  to  call,  and 
that  he  heard  there  was  a  young  lady.  There 
fore  we  took  off  our  flannel  shirts  and  washed 
them  in  Old  Man  Captain's  mush  kettle.  Now, 
the  only  thing  I  have  against  washing  a  fellow's 
shirt  in  a  mush  kettle  is  that  he  boils  mush  in 
as  fast  as  he  boils  dirt  out.  It  was  a  bad  job. 

And  the  next  day  Hen  and  I  wore  those  two 
bemushed  shirts  down  to  the  plantation.  And 
there  wasn't  any  young  lady.  (I  thought  so. 
They  are  as  unsatisfactory  as  turtle  eggs.) 

The  plantation  folk,  who  were  lonely  Ohioans 


66     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

making  a  vain  effort  to  clean  up  the  ancient  rice 
fields,  were  aghast  at  our  idea  of  that  Gulf  trip 
in  a  canoe.  They  wanted  us  to  stay  and  help 
fight  mosquitoes  and  grow  up  with  the  country. 
Thanks,  no.  It  was  no  place  for,  a  baldheaded 
man,  in  mosquito  time.  Besides,  there  was  the 
Fountain  of  Youth.  We  were  headed  wrong 
just  at  present  owing  to  that  confounded  canoe, 
but  we  expected  to  face  about  soon. 

Old  Man  Captain  was  greatly  curious  after 
our  visit  to  the  "  big  rich  folks  "  on  the  plan 
tation.  He  confessed  shortly  that  it  was  be 
cause  he  was  afraid  they,  too,  were  after  the 
pirates'  hide-up.  What  else  would  bring  Yan 
kees  down  to  Barataria?  And  he  was  still  a 
trifle  suspicious  of  us  and  the  "  jigger-rod." 

Hen  was  fishing  the  next  day  when  Old  Man 
Captain  shyly  approached  me.  We  had  been 
fraternizing  on  that  most  intimate  of  all  out 
door  discussions — grub.  Old  Man  Captain 
"  loved  "  dandelion  greens  and  crabs  and  mush 
with  sugar  and  lard.  He  didn't  hanker  after 
Hen's  dehydrated  vegetables,  nor  our  com- 


THE  BAEATAEIANS  67 

pressed  tea  tablets  nor  chrysolose  sweetening. 
Now  I  didn't  either.  Old  Man  Captain  and  I 
were  a  bit  primitive  in  our  tastes  and  distrust 
of  catalogue  camp  outfits.  I  suppose  that  was 
the  reason  Old  Man  Captain  confided  in  me. 

"Reckon,  while  Mr.  Hen's  a-fishin',  you-all 
wouldn't  like  to  take  a  little  run  off'n  the  big 
cypress?" 

"Treasure?"  I  ventured. 

Old  Man  Captain  smiled  deprecatingly. 
"Sho'  hit  it.  It's  somewhe'  yandeh."  He 
waved  his  hand  vaguely  toward  the  blue  wall 
of  the  flooded  forest  to  the  North.  "  That  me 
dium  woman  said  three  oak  trees  on  a  point,  and 
the  water  runnin'  east  past  an  old  plantation." 
Then  he  leaned  to  me  and  whispered  mysteri 
ously.  "  And  I  saw  the  chart.  Sho'  did.  Could 
a  bought  that  chart,  but  I  didn't  have  no  eight 
dollehs.  She  was  a  fine  woman — a  widda 
woman.  I  always  did  love  spiritual  business. 
When  I  met  her  up  river  she  tried  to  get  me  to 
quit  driftin'.  Says  she:  'A  rollin'  stone  gath 
ers  no  moss.'  Says  I:  *  Widda,  and  a  settin' 


68     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

hen  neve*  gets  fat.'  That  widda  woman  sho' 
took  to  me.  She  wanted  me  to  stay,  but  when 
I  wouldn't  she  showed  me  her  chart  and  says: 
'  You  go  down  river  and  look  fo'  the  pirates' 
hide-up.'  Then  she  describe  it  just  as  it  lay 
hyar.  Three  oaks  on  a  point  and  water  flowin' 
east  past  an  old  plantation.  When  I  struck 
this  point,  and  the  Cajuns  show  me  that  old 
grave  and  whe'  they  dug  up  the  shell  banks,  I 
didn't  say  nothin'.  But  I  thinks:  '  Widda,  yo* 
sho'  air  spiritual.  Hyar's  the  hide-up ! '  " 

"Honest,  Cap?" 

"Right  yere!  I  been  all  over  the  rivers  out 
in  that  Western  country.  I  come  down  the  Rio 
Grande  and  up  the  Brazos  and  down  White 
River,  and  across  the  Sabine,  smellin'  eve'whe' 
fo'  treasure.  When  I  got  to  La  Fourche  coun 
try  I  began  to  get  wahm.  I  look  at  eve'  planta 
tion  fo'  the  picture  as  the  widda  woman  de 
scribed  it  to  me.  I  crossed  Lake  Salvador  in 
my  oP  johnboat,  and  when  I  come  into  Bia  Vil- 
lere  I  shout:  *  Widda,  yo'  sho'  air  spiritual  1 '" 
He  pointed  out  the  door  of  his  shack.  "  Three 


THE  BARATARIANS  69 

trees  and  the  water  flowin'  east.  And  Ber- 
thaud's  is  the  ol'  plantation." 

I  sat  down  on  Old  Man  Captain's  crab  box 
and  looked  around.  Confound  the  luck,  couldn't 
Hen  and  I  ever  get  away  from  Women  and 
Romance?  But  there  they  were  shining  in  Old 
Man  Captain's  eyes! 

"Hyar  she  be!"  crowed  Old  Man  Captain. 
"  And  yo'  two  boys  happened  along  to  help  me 
find  it." 

I  looked  out  at  Hen  fishing  off  the  log  raft. 
He  sat  in  the  sun,  clothed  in  nothing  except  a 
cigarette  and  his  faith  that  the  fishing  was  good. 
The  Cajun  trappers  paddling  home  called  gen 
tle  advice:  "Man,  yo'  put  on  yo'  shirt  or  yo' 
get  feveh!" 

He  waved  his  cigarette  airily.  Old  Fitzende 
paddled  on,  shaking  his  head.  These  bayou  men 
fear  the  sun  and  breeze,  but  they  will  shut  them 
selves  in  their  twelve-by-fourteen  windowless 
board  shacks,  batten  the  door  tight  to  keep  out 
mosquitoes,  and  sleep  night  long.  They  will 
run  a  trap-line  twelve  miles  through  the  swamp 


70     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

in  muck  to  their  waists,  but  if  one  took  a  real 
swim  they  would  regard  him  as  ready  for  the 
last  sacrament.  I  think  they  imagined  Hen  and 
I  were  both  a  bit  crazy.  Who  else  but  a  lunatic 
would  sprawl  out  full  length  on  the  log  raft 
doing  nothing  for  hours  but  listen  to  the  mock 
ing  birds  in  the  green  cane  these  sunny  March 
mornings ! 

As  I  said,  I  looked  at  Hen.  He  did  not  ap 
pear  to  be  a  seeker  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  An 
Argonaut  should  have  more  hair  and  ambition. 
Then  I  looked  at  Old  Man  Captain.  There 
was  romance.  There  was  adventure.  There 
was  eternal  youth.  I  almost  wished  that  Hen 
and  I  did  not  know  so  much.  I  would  have 
liked  to  go  off  with  Old  Man  Captain  in  the 
leaky  johnboat  to  dig  up  something  or  other. 
Every  man  ought  to  have  a  widda  woman  who 
would  send  him  out  to  find  treasure.  But  when 
he's  thirty-five  he's  either  got  his,  or  lost  a  deal 
of  interest.  I  wanted  to  set  off  gallantly  with 
Old  Man  Captain  on  that  rousing  treasure  hunt, 
but  I  just  couldn't.  The  cities  had  taken  it  out  > 
of  me. 


THE  BARATARIAN&  71 

"  Old  Man,"  I  answered,  "  it  would  be  great 
stuff,  but  the  mosquitoes  off  in  that  swamp " 

That  ended  it.  Old  Man  Captain  knew  me 
for  a  Philistine,  He  turned  and  began  baiting 
his  crab-line,  removing  Ponto  from  the  basket 
with  a  gentle  push  of  his  foot.  "  I  gin  that  dog 
a  half  pan  of  mush  day  befo'  yesterday,  and 
here  he  is  with  his  ribs  bellerin'  out  like  a  luggar 
sail,  actin'  like  he  was  hungry." 

I  washed  dishes  from  the  raft  end  while  the 
Captain  ran  his  crab-line.  More  pirogue  men 
paddled  past  to  chide  Hen.  "Man,  whe'  yo' 
clothes?  Yo'  get  shakes  sho'  in  dat  sun!" 

A  lanky- jawed  fisher  came  ashore  to  protest 
to  us.  All  the  village  was  talking  about  it  down 
below,  he  said,  this  Yankee  who  enjoyed  fishing 
without  a  shirt  to  his  back.  And  when  Hen 
finally  tired  of  the  argument,  dived  off  the  logs 
and  came  sputtering  up  yards  away,  there  was 
a  chorus  of  dismay.  No  Baratarian  ever  went 
swimming.  The  bayou  was  full  of  sharks.  And 
twelve-foot  gars.  And  snakes.  And  'gators. 
The  trappers  awaited  the  tragedy.  But  Hen 
climbed  ashore,  found  his  shirt,  beat  the  mush 


72     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

out  of  it  across  a  china  berry  tree  and  put  it 
on.  "Hi,  let's  eat!"  he  said.  "Antoine,  have 
coffee  with  us ! " 

That  was  unnecessary.  Every  pirogue  man 
had  his  own  tiny  dripper,  and  on  every  canoe, 
or  from  a  few  heaped  twigs  on  the  white  shell 
shore,  a  coffee  fire  was  going.  Old  Man  Cap 
tain,  as  usual,  had  some  observation  to  make 
about  the  cooking.  "  I  once  knew  a  nigger  from 
Grand  Lake  who  put  crabs  in  his  coffee  fo* 
breakfast.  .  .  .  But  I'd  rather  have  lemon." 

Antoine  explained  the  turtle  industry.  "  I 
catch  heem  out  in  the  prairie  by  dem  mud  holes. 
I  hook  heem  over,  and  tie  hees  tail  and  put  a 
stick  in  hees  mout'  and  send  him  to  N'Awlyins 
for  seben  cents  hees  pound.  He  come  out  dat 
bia  to  lay  hees  eggs.  M'sieu,  yo'  want  some 
turtle  eggs  dis  mawnin'?" 

"  No!  "  we  roared.  "  Everything  in  camp  is 
full  of  turtle  eggs !  " 

"  Except  me,"  added  Hen;  "  I  decline.  Cap, 
you  can't  chuck  another  turtle  egg  down  me! 
I'll  take  crabs  in  my  coffee,  if  it's  customary 


THE  BARATAEIANS  73 

in  the  best  families  down  here,  but  no  turtle 
eggs." 

A  week  longer  we  camped  along  Bayou  Vil- 
lere.  We  caught  shrimp,  as  they  showed  us,  by 
letting  down  a  green  willow  or  mangrove  until 
the  crustaceans  gathered  in  its  branches,  and 
then  lifting  it  deftly  over  a  dip  net.  We  shot 
a  Cf  dos  Gris  "  or  two,  although  the  duck  season 
was  .over,  and  landed  a  fourteen-pound  catfish 
one  morning  with  great  eclat.  Now  and  then  a 
tradeboat,  gasoline  propelled,  or  a  red-sailed 
luggar  drifted  past.  Once  a  two-stack  steamer 
came  out  of  Lake  Salvador  and  went  up  the 
winding  bayou  to  the  Mississippi.  And  all  the 
lazy,  colorful,  primitive  life  of  the  south  coast 
got  into  us. 

"  If  we  don't  move  on  soon  somewhere,"  mur 
mured  Hen,  "  blamed  if  I  ever  will.  What  was 
it  we  came  down  here  for,  anyhow?  Oh,  yes — 
that  Ponce  de  Leon  stunt.  It's  a  good  thing  he 
didn't  stop  anywhere  to  go  catfishing  off  a  log 
raft.  There's  only  one  thing  wrong  with  this 
fishing  down  in  Louisiana.  A  fellow  just  gets 


74     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

settled  back  in  the  scow,  his  eyes  shut,  listening 
to  the  birds,  and  the  breeze  and  the  sun  makes 
him  think  of  Paradise  when  some  fool  catfish 
comes  along  and  yanks  the  line.  Then  a  fellow 
must  sit  up  and  haul  it  in,  or  bait  his  hook,  or 
do  something." 

Old  Man  Captain  the  next  day  nudged  me 
and  winked  at  Hen  out  on  the  bayou.  "  That 
air  boy's  fishin'  without  any  bait  because  he 
don't  want  the  fish  to  disturb  him !  " 

"  Then,"  I  retorted,  "it's  time  to  move  on!" 

But  where  to?  No  word  of  that  special-to- 
order  deep  sea-going  canoe. 

"As  an  expedition  to  out-game  old  Ponce  de 
Leon,"  murmured  Hen,  as  we  lay  under  the 
green  silk  tent,  "  this  is  getting  frazzled.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  what  is  the  Cap'n  cooking  now? 
Turtle  eg " 

No.  We  all  got  together,  even  Hen  working, 
and  dined  excellently  on  baked  catfish,  sweet 
corn,  boiled  ham,  rice  jambelaya  (in  which  Mon 
sieur  Perrine  had  instructed  us),  and  Cajun 
coffee. 


THE  BARATARIANS  75 

There  appeared  after  dinner,  as  we  smoked 
under  the  china  berry  tree,  one  Unc'  McFrancis, 
a  venerable  and  dignified  colored  gentleman. 
He  was  a  pensioner,  veteran  of  a  Ken 
tucky  Union  regiment,  and  also  had  once  been 
a  slave  up  river.  Unc'  McFrancis  talked  of 
many  things,  catfish,  philosophy,  and  our  par 
ticular  chances  of  getting  anywhere  from  Bara- 
taria.  "  Most  folks  don't  come  here,"  he  said. 
"  And  what  do,  dey  gin'erally  git  away  soon — 
or  else  stay.  If  Ah  had  as  much  money  as  you- 
all,  Ah'd  git  away." 

Of  course  we  talked  treasure.  Everyone  did 
sooner  or  later.  Unc'  McFrancis  took  no  stock 
in  the  La  Fitte  treasure  yarns.  "  Dem  ol'  pi 
rates  folkses,  dey  didn't  bury  nuffin  round  hyar. 
And  if  dey  did,  dey'd  dig  it  up  again.  Ah 
reckon  pirate  folkses  air  just  like  other  folkses. 
Ain't  goin'  to  leave  any  money  round  the  yahd 
fo'  chickens  to  scratch — no,  seh!" 

Old  Man  Captain  looked  pained.  Romance 
had  taken  another  jolt.  I  tried  to  cheer  him  up 
by  arguing  for  the  cause.  But  Unc'  McFrancis 


76     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

was  not  to  be  argued.  "  Ain't  but  two  things 
su'tin  in  this  worl'.  One  is  livin'  and  the  other 
is  killin'.  Money,  hit  belongs  up  in  them  oncer- 
tain  things  o'  this  life.  Great  wealth,  hit  brings 
its  troubles.  Once  Ah  knew  a  colo'd  man  that 
won  eighty  dollehs  with  dice.  He  nebbeh  was 
no  good  afteh  dat.  If  dem  ol'  pirate  folkses 
were  to  come  back  to  me  in  a  vision  and  show 
me  dat  money,  Ah'd  say:  *  Lawd,  yo'  put  away 
dis  temptation  1 ' 

Unc'  McFrancis  was  a  deacon  of  the  "  Bap 
tist  St.  John"  church,  which  we  were  told  was 
"  up  de  bia."  He  produced  a  card  and  an  awl 
and  Hen  and  I  punched  holes  in  the  margin, 
which  holes  cost  us  ten  cents  each.  Unc'  Mc 
Francis  said  it  was  to  buy  a  stove  for  the  Bap 
tist  St.  John  congregation  next  winter.  Also, 
we  could  punch  three  holes  for  a  quarter.  But 
Hen  punched  his  hole  extra  large  and  we  let 
it  go  at  that.  He  tried  to  explain  that  large 
holes  meant  more  Holiness,  but  Unc'  McFran 
cis'  theology  had  not  got  that  far. 

He  swapped  turtle  yarns  and  fish  yarns  with 


THE   BAEATARIANS  77 

us,  and  when  Old  Man  Captain  complained  of 
Ponto's  appetite,  Unc'  rejoiced.  "  I  got  er 
dawg  down  the  bia  dat  I  hatter  keep  tied  up 
with  a  piece  of  vanilla  rope  he  so  powe'ful  hon- 
gry.  He  grab  one  piece  o'  hoecake  in  his  mout' 
and  anodder  piece  under  each  paw  and  den  he 
look  'round  fo'  mo'.  Sometimes  dat  dawg  al 
most  human." 

He  went  off  at  mosquito  time,  which  is  coin 
cident  with  bedtime.    The  next  day  we  saw  the 

entire  colored  population  of  Barataria  in  five 
skiffs  starting  from  Bayou  Villere  to  the  place 

of  worship.  They  were  a  picturesque  fleet,  the 
women  in  bright  turbans,  the  men  in  derbies 
and  stiff  shirts  pulling  at  the  oars.  The  skiffs 
followed  in  line  among  the  purple  water  hya 
cinths  under  the  live  oaks,  and  when  they  had 
rounded  the  point  I  heard  Unc'  McFrancis: 

"  All  Ah  want  is  free  salvation, 
And  fifty  acres  in  mah  oF  plantation — 
O   Lawd;   how  long?" 


CHAPTER   IV 


A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "  TIGER  "  BOAT 


MONDAY  morning  Hen  and  I  idled 
down  to  the  village  two  miles  below. 
We  went  in  a  borrowed  johnboat.  You 
can  go  nowhere  except  by  boat.  The  deep 
swamp  rises  back  of  the  low  ridge  along  the 
bayou  side,  and  beyond  the  first  fringe  of  prai 
rie  cane,  the  black,  grim  cypress  forest.  None 
venture  there  except  the  trappers  and  the  tie 
cutters.  Barataria  village  is  a  long  straggling 
row  of  forlorn  houses  facing  the  lily-filled  bayou. 
Under  the  live  oaks  on  the  shell  heaps  the  fish 
ing  skiffs  are  dragged;  and  here  men  sit  of 
afternoons  baiting  the  crab-lines  with  "  sinies." 
Sinies  are  beef  sinews  as  it  took  us  some  time 
to  ascertain.  Nothing  else  will  resist  the  vora 
cious  maw  of  a  Baratarian  crab. 

78 


A-CEUISE  ON  THE  "TIGER"     79 

Mornings  the  village  street,  or  rather  the 
bank,  was  deserted.  The  male  population  was 
off  "  beyond  the  forty-arpent  line  "  trapping;  or 
running  the  crab  and  fish  lines  in  Lake  Salva 
dor,  a  mile  to  the  west.  The  trapping,  save  for 
the  muskrats,  was  about  done.  We  were  shown, 
at  Manila  village  later,  three  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  mink  and  otter  pelts.  The  trappers, 
however,  realize  little.  With  all  their  hardy 
work,  the  trade  boats  and  the  "  sto' "  makes 
the  middleman's  profit. 

The  crab  fishing  was  now  the  main  depend 
ence.  But  even  at  this  the  Baratarians  prefer 
to  sell  crabs  at  fifteen  cents  a  basket  and  buy 
potatoes  at  forty,  rather  than  attempt  to  put  in 
a  garden  on  the  rich  strip  of  soil  back  of  their 
shacks.  In  some  of  the  tumble-down  gardens 
oranges  were  still  golden  on  the  trees,  and  un 
kempt  roses  ran  over  the  fences.  But  on  the 
banks,  among  the  abandoned  luggars,  the  Ca- 
juns  sat  at  their  net-mending  and  baiting  of 
crab-lines.  In  vain  the  new  proprietor  of  Ber- 
thaud's  plantation  across  the  bayou  offered  day 


80     THE  FOUNTAIN.  OF  YOUTH 

labor.     No  one  wanted  the  Yankee's  dollars. 

I  made  a  trip  on  a  gasoline  luggar  to  the  city 
that  week  to  ask  further  of  our  missing  canoe. 
"  Juan,  the  Manilaman,"  was  the  master  of  The 
Young  Lady,  and  now  we  first  heard  of  the  Fili 
pino  colonies  of  the  lower  lakes,  the  Chino-Fili- 
pino  peoples  who  had  been  established  on  the 
south  coast  for  forty  years  before  the  average 
American  had  the  name  Filipino  brought  to  his 
ears  by  Dewey's  guns.  I  told  Juan,  the  Manila 
man,  we  would  surely  accept  his  invitation  to 
sojourn  there.  The  little  old  tub  churned  up 
through  Lake  Salvador  past  its  sunken,  lonely 
shores,  around  Couba  island  vand  into  Bayou 
Sennett,  and  at  evening  we  reached  Westwego. 
I  was  struck  by  the  names  of  the  boats  we  passed 
in  the  swamp  channels .  "  Just  Like  You'9 
"Double  Trouble;9  ff Killgloomf  "The  Good 
Child:'  "Visayanr  "Purity:9  Few  of  them, 
however,  used  their  picturesque  red  sails,  for  the 
gas  motor  is  fast  supplanting  wind  power. 

I  came  back  after  another  irritating  inter 
view  with  the  steamship  people.  Not  a  word  of 


.« 

"S 

a 
0 


A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "TIGER"     81 

our  lost  canoe.  Hen  was  much  dejected.  He 
denounced  Ponce  de  Leon.  His  gun  had  rusted, 
the  camera  wouldn't  work,  and  some  Cajun  had 
presented  him  with  more  turtle  eggs.  Old  Man 
Captain  was  a  curious  spectator  of  Hen's  strug 
gle  with  that  multi-speed,  bifurcated  camera. 

"  When  you  boys  get  that  air  machine  fixed, 
I  want  you  to  take  them  dawgs.  Them  dawgs 
would  make  fine  scenery.  I  always  did  want 
some  of  them  pictorial  pictures." 

He  had  riled  Hen  by  asking  if  he  wasn't  a 
barber.  "  You-all  done  somehow  look  like  a 
barber.  I  used  to  know  a  barber  out  in  that 
Western  country." 

Turtle  eggs,  rusted  gun,  camera  out  of  whack, 
and  mistaken  for  a  barber!  Hen  had  lost  his 
illusions  a  bit. 

"  Who?  "  he  asked  with  some  asperity,  "  ever 
proposed  this  idea? " 

"  I  have  forgotten,"  I  answered.  "  But  we're 
here.  But  even  if  it  is  a  lawless  country  they 
can't  compel  you  to  eat  any  more  turtle  eggs. 
Antoine  says  there's  a  boat  coming  past  here 


82     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

to-night  for  the  lower  lakes.  Let's  board  her 
and  go  down.  We  can  just  as  well  wait  for 
our  canoe  down  there,  as  up  here.  Then  we  can 
come  back  to  New  Orleans  and  paddle  to  Flor 
ida  when  we're  notified  that  it's  arrived.  The 
Fountain  of  Youth,  my  boy,  has  never  yet  run 
dry!" 

He  waved  a  rubber-back  hair  brush  at  me  and 
was  glum.  The  atmosphere  of  camp,  in  fact, 
was  so  surcharged  that  night  that  I  got  out  an 
hour  before  daylight,  took  Old  Man  Captain's 
johnboat  and  his  sawed-off  shotgun,  and  went 
to  the  lake.  It  was  a  wondrous  dawn.  I 
rounded  the  point  past  the  spot  where  they  will 
tell  you  that  two  slave  ships,  driven  from  the 
Gulf  by  a  British  sloop  and  unable  to  smuggle 
their  cargoes  safely  up  to  the  plantation  coun 
try,  were  scuttled  with  their  human  cargoes  bat 
tened  beneath  the  hatches,  and  paddled  on  south 
along  the  sunken  shores.  The  lonely  lake  was 
a  mirror  reflecting  the  giant  cypress,  and  when 
I  drew  the  boat  into  the  watery  aisles  among 
the  mangrove  clumps,  the  damp,  sweet  breath 


A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "TIGER"    83 

of  the  swamp  was  like  the  perfume  of  a  florist's 
shop.  I  landed  on  the  only  bit  of  ground  above 
water,  and  as  I  was  carefully  testing  the  muck 
with  the  butt  of  the  shotgun,  a  dos  gris  arose 
from  the  grass  beyond.  And  I  dropped  him, 
closed  season  or  no.  We  were  done  with  turtle 
eggs.  And  I  had  understood  that  the  game 
wardens  never  invaded  the  Free  State  of  Bara- 
taria. 

I  found  that  black  and  gray  dos  gris  among 
the  latanier  palms  and  threw  him  in  the  John- 
boat.  Then  I  wandered  into  the  watery  wilder 
ness  back  of  the  first  fringe  of  giant  cypress 
thrusting  their  grim  buttresses  up  through  the 
black,  still  water.  The  plumes  of  the  Spanish 
moss  hung  straight  from  every  limb  and  gave 
the  forest  the  majestic  severity  of  a  cathedral, 
beyond  whose  fluted  columns  one  saw  the  tur 
quoise  sky.  And  how  the  birds  sang!  Mocking 
birds  and  blackbirds,  with  now  and  then  a  car 
dinal  like  a  flame  through  the  gray  moss  stream 
ers.  On  the  little  hummocky  glades  flowers  were 
everywhere,  white  dewberry  bloom,  a  yellow 


84     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

flag  and  a  purplish  orchid-like  blossom,  while 
in  all  the  water  spaces  the  wild  hyacinths  raised 
their  colorful  profusion.  Every  log  and  stump 
was  red  and  yellow  mottled  with  fungi,  and 
from  these  and  the  lush  grasses  and  the  young 
palmettoes  the  water  drops  sparkled  until  the 
whole  wet,  still  forest  was  brilliant.  Still,  did 
I  say?  Never  did  one  hear  such  unceasing 
melody ! 

And  while  I  was  sitting  there  on  a  rotted  log 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  loveliness,  back  on  the 
stern  of  the  johnboat  at  the  lake  edge,  a  parish 
game  warden  sat  looking  down  on  that  poor, 
anemic  no-account  duck  that  had  happened  to 
run  in  the  way  of  my  shotgun.  I  found  him 
there  when  I  went  out.  We  had  quite  a  con 
versation.  We  discussed  the  Louisiana  game 
laws.  I'll  never  tell  you  just  exactly  how  we 
adjudicated  the  transgression.  It  concluded 
with  a  duck  dinner;  duck  with  turnips,  Creole 
style.  The  warden  cooked  the  duck,  drank 
most  of  our  whiskey,  and  departed  amicably. 
After  all,  what  is  a  duck  between  friends? 


A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "TIGER"    85 

This  is  a  wholly  truthful  narrative,  so  I  must 
confess  to  the  duck,  the  game  warden,  the  din 
ner;  and  even  how  Hen  swore  when  he  fell  over 
the  hound  pup  and  spilled  the  bacon.  Old  Man 
Captain  "  lammed  "  the  pup. 

"  I  sho'  got  it  in  for  that  air  dawg,  anyhow. 
He  grabbed  my  eye-glasses  and  ran  out  and 
dropped  'em  in  the  bia,  and  here  I  just  done 
got  a  new  almanack  off 'n  that  game  warden's 
boat.  But  I  reckon  it  don't  make  much  differ 
ence  what  time  it  is."  He  tried  on  my  glasses, 
and  then  Hen's.  "  You  young  fellers  oughtn't 
to  be  wearin'  glasses.  I  reckon  you-all  do  it 
just  to  be  in  city  style." 

I  dozed  away  a  peaceful  afternoon  under  the 
oaks  while  Hen  and  Old  Man  Captain  executed 
a  dance  about  the  pirate's  grave  trying  to  obtain 
a  snapshot  of  the  Captain's  king  snake.  They 
held  him  up  on  sticks  and  he  would  slide  off; 
they  tried  to  flatten  him  out  on  the  log  and  he 
would  wriggle  under  it,  before  Hen  could  get 
his  hifalutin'  camera  to  working.  The  king 
snake  refused  to  be  "  scenery,"  ajs  the  Captain 


86     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

had  it ;  and  finally  crawled  in  his  hole  under  the 
log  and  wiggled  a  derisive  tail  at  them.  Every 
trapper  and  cane  basket  maker  passing  the 
bayou  witnessed  the  altercation.  It  confirmed 
their  suspicions  about  our  sanity;  Le  Nom  de 
Dieu!  For  what  would  any  man  want  a  picture 
of  a  snake? 

One  of  the  Adam  boys  stopped  off  as  we  were 
getting  breakfast  the  next  morning  and  had  the 
inevitable  coffee,  sitting  on  his  pirogue  seat 
above  an  unappetizing  mess  of  dead  muskrats, 
as  he  stirred  it. 

"  If  you-all  want  to  get  down  to  Little  Lake, 
dat  Tiger  boat  he  come  along  to-day.  He  tak 
you-all  to  Clark  Cherdere" 

We  made  further  inquiries.  We  were  told 
the  Tiger  was  again  "  loaded  with  lumber  and 
ladies."  That  was  not  reassuring,  but  we  de 
cided  to  pull  up  camp  and  take  a  chance.  Old 
Man  Captain  was  grieved.  In  our  two  weeks' 
sojourn  with  him  he  had  had  the  first  real  hu 
man  companionship  in  forty  years.  "  Don't 
know  just  bow  I  took  to  you-all."  He  added: 


A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "  TIGER  "     87 

"  I  sho'  hate  to  have  you  go  away."  He  went 
within  his  frail  old  shack,  fumbled  about  among 
the  rusty  traps  and  crab  nets  and  came  out  with 
a  battered  tin  box.  From  its  plunder — old  ac 
count  books  of  the  plantations,  dirty  twine,  al 
manacs,  match  safes,  and  tobacco  crumbs — he 
took  an  old  German  silver  watch.  There  were 
no  works  in  it,  but  he  gave  it  to  me  with  a 
gracious  solemnity. 

"  Fo'  a  keepsake.  Had  it  long  befo'  I  went 
out  in  that  Western  country.  I  almost  give  it 
to  the  widda  woman,  but  I  thought  I'd  wait  till 
I  found  the  treasure  and  then  give  her  some 
jewelry.  But  I  want  you  boys  to  have  it;  and 
when  you  come  back  this  hyar  bia,  mebbe  I'll 
have  peas  and  new  'taters,  if  the  tide  don't  wash 
me  off'n  this  Point.  And  the  hound  pups'll 
have  better  mannehs,  and  the  Cajuns  won't  pes 
ter  you  with  so  much  turtle  eggs." 

Good  Old  Man  Captain!  When  the  Tiger 
boat,  "loaded  with  lumber  and  ladies,"  came 
along  that  evening  and  wheezed  to  the  bank  at 
our  hail  and  we  piled  our  traps  on  the  lumber 


88     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

among  the  ladies,  I  felt  a  keen  regret  at  part 
ing.  He  stood  long  looking  after  us,  the  pups 
about  his  feet,  in  front  of  his  camp,  waving  a 
farewell — the  simplest,  kindliest,  most  honest 
soul  I  ever  knew,  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman. 
Never  once  in  our  intercourse  had  his  courtesy 
been  wanting.  When  we  were  packing  up  and 
conferring  as  to  what  we  could  leave  with  him 
as  a  parting  gift,  he  went  aside  with  rare  tact 
that  we  might  not  be  embarrassed  in  this  discus 
sion.  We  had  hard  work  persuading  the  old 
Confederate  to  accept  anything,  even  with  his 
larder  at  beggary's  point :  and  four  months  later, 
when  we  paddled  to  his  camp,  Hen  and  I  dis 
covered  a  little  row  of  soup  and  tomato  cans  on 
his  shelf — untouched. 

"  Thought  mebbe  you  boys  would  get  back 
this  way  some  time,  and  be  short  of  grub,"  he 
smiled.  "  So  I  just  kept  it  all  for  you! " 

But  this  evening  we  left  him,  and  the  Tiger 
boat  beat  out  into  a  lake  of  golden  light,  such 
a  sunset  and  such  a  water  mirror  as  might  be 
part  of  fairyland.  Afar  was  the  gray-green 


A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "TIGER"    89 

cypress  forest,  in  the  middle  distance  the  yel 
low  prairie  cane,  and  for  all  the  world  like  a 
Northern  wheat  field.  Everywhere  we  were 
astonished  at  this  verisimiltude.  One  seemed  to 
see  level  fields,  well-kept  farmsteads,  hill  ranges 
and  valley  depths,  and  it  was  hard  to  believe 
that  it  was  all  lonely  and  uninhabited  swamp 
wilderness. 

The  Tiger  boat  throbbed  on,  turned  south  and 
followed  the  path  of  the  rising  moon  across  the 
silent  lake.  For  Bayou  Perot  she  was  bound, 
and  as  Hen  and  I  sat  on  our  luggage  on  the 
cabin  top,  there  seemed  room  for  none  else,  so 
cluttered  up  was  she  with  ladies.  Also  babies, 
men,  mischievous  boys,  a  cargo  of  boards,  gro 
ceries,  bread  in  gunny  sacks,  barrels  of  red  wine, 
and  crab  baskets.  The  Creole  girls  sat  on  the 
tiny  foredeck  with  their  feet  hanging  down,  and 
as  the  moon  grew  higher  they  began  singing  to 
the  tinkle  of  a  guitar  which  a  dark-eyed  boy 
played  from  the  pilot  house  top.  The  Tiger 
boat  made  no  more  than  five  miles  an  hour,  but 
no  one  cared. 


90     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Captain  "  Jack  "  Hammond  offered  whiskey 
and  coffee,  refused  any  passage  money,  and  said 
he'd  take  us  "somewhere,"  adding  that  we 
ought  to  go  forward  and  "  wiggle  round  among 
the  ladies."  He  was  glad  to  acquire  us,  it 
seemed,  for  he  was  taking  them  to  a  "  ball " 
down  below,  if  the  boat  got  there.  If  not  to 
night,  then  to-morrow  night — he'd  stay  over 
for  it. 

That  seemed  good.  Going  somewhere  to  a 
ball,  if  the  boat  got  there,  along  with  a  cargo 
of  lumber  and  ladies.  The  Tiger  boat  turned 
down  Bayou  Perot,  between  level  fields  of 
marsh  grass  and  water  shimmering  in  the  moon. 
Now  and  then  a  hail  would  come  off  ahead, 
above  the  voices  of  the  singing  girls,  Jack  Ham 
mond  would  bawl  to  the  engine  boy,  the  wheez 
ing  motor  would  stop,  and  a  lean-faced  muskrat 
trapper  would  shoot  his  pirogue  alongside. 
There  would  be  an  animated  search  among  the 
ladies  and  lumber  for  some  stuff  he  had  ordered, 
someone  would  toss  down  a  few  loaves  of  bread 
out  of  the  gunny  sacks,  and  on  we  would  go. 


A-CRUISE  ON  THE  "TIGER"    91 

Now  and  then  one  of  the  trappers  would  hang 
alongside  for  a  mile  and  drink  whiskey  with  the 
skipper;  and  at  Point  Legarde,  we  waited  an 
hour  while  crew,  Captain,  guests,  and  natives 
argued  the  price  of  catfish.  Indeed,  so  late  was 
it  by  now  that  the  girls  began  to  clamor  about 
the  "  ball." 

"M'sieu  Jack,  we  sho'  never  go  down  with 
this  Tiger  boat  again.  You-all  ain't  a-goin'  to 
get  anywhere  till  mawninV 

That  was  exactly  what  happened.  It  was 
long  after  midnight  when  the  Tiger  boat 
reached  Clark  Cheniere.  By  that  time  the  fid 
dler  and  the  guitar  player  had  absorbed  so  much 
of  the  Tiger  boat's  liquid  cargo  that  they  were 
asleep  on  top  of  the  lumber,  and  the  girls 
climbed  down  in  a  skiff  and  were  sent  ashore 
with  many  a  tart  comment  on  Jack  Hammond's 
dilatory  schedule.  They  had  cast  many  a  curi 
ous  glance  at  the  two  strangers  sitting  on  the 
duffle  sacks  amidships,  but  to  Captain  Jack's 
repeated  invitations  to  "  go  mix  with  the  girls  " 
we  had  been  reluctantly  inclined.  The  bayou 


92     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

girls  were  coy.  The  skiff  load  put  off  and  dis 
appeared  into  the  fringe  of  shadows  above  a 
white,  gleaming  shell  bank,  which  was  all  we 
could  see  of  the  Cheniere.  Then  Hen  and  I 
rolled  in  our  blankets  and  slept  face  up  to  the 
moon,  with  the  pleasant  voices  of  the  island  girls 
coming  over  the  water.  Very  romantic,  you  say. 
But  the  Tiger  boat  had  many  sorts  of  ants  and 
bugs  and  all  of  these  came  for'ard  to  take  the 
strangers  in. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  OLD  STOJ   BALLS 

THE  next  morning  we  took  in  Clark  Che- 
niere.  We  had  to  get  out  early,  for  the 
entire  population  came  in  skiffs  and  pi 
rogues  and  climbed  on  board.  We  made  coffee 
on  top  of  the  lumber  with  many  comments  from 
the  spectators.  Everybody  knew  us.  The  tale 
had  spread.  The  soft-voiced  Creoles  fingered 
our  camp  gear  and  discussed  our  khaki  trousers. 
They  plied  the  Tiger  boat  crew  with  questions 
about  us.  To  us  they  were  courteously  shy,  but 
curious;  so  much  so  that  finally  we  asked  Jack 
Hammond  if  we  could  not  be  put  ashore  and 
find  a  camp  in  some  spot  more  secluded  than  the 
village  street,  which  seemed  to  be  all  there  was 
to  Clark  Cheniere.  It  was  merely  a  dozen  un- 
painted  houses  straggling  along  the  white  shells 

93 


94     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

facing  the  open  roadstead  where  a  score  of  lug- 
gars  and  a  few  gasoline  boats  lay.  Among  these 
house  yards  a  few  great  oak  trees  arose,  and 
beyond  them  stretched  the  illimitable  salt  prai 
rie.  Far  above  this  and  the  seemingly  shoreless 
open  water  to  the  south  one  saw  other  oak 
groves  (chenieres) .  That  was  all  except  the  blue 
water  and  the  bluer  sky. 

A  few  silent  groups  of  seine  menders  and  crab 
fishers  baiting  their  lines  squatted  under  the 
china  berry  bushes  and  mangroves.  From  one 
of  the  watery  lanes  leading  from  the  marsh  to 
the  backyards  of  the  row  of  houses  came  a  soli 
tary  rat  trapper.  We  heard  the  harsh  cry  of  a 
rail  from  the  salt  pools,  and  snipe  were  running 
on  the  beaches  at  each  end  of  the  habitable  shore. 
We  idled  among  the  groups  all  morning  long. 
A  shy,  curious  people  of  indecipherable  blood — 
Chino-Italian,  Filipino,  Spanish,  Creole,  Indian, 
renegade  Irish,  or  American.  The  sun  had  put 
the  same  swarthy  touch  to  all,  and  years  of  con 
tact  had  fused  their  speech  to  that  droll  dialect 
of  the  Cajun,  which  is  more  like  the  tongue  of 
the  tough  slums  of  the  Northern  towns  than  any- 


THE  OLD  STO'  BALLS  95 

thing  else.  "  Dis,"  "  dat,"  "  fadder,"  "  modder," 
— that  was  what  we  heard  from  them  all,  regard 
less  of  blood-type. 

In  front  of  each  house,  drawn  up  on  the  shell 
beach,  were  their  pirogues.  Trapping  in  winter, 
shrimp  hauling  in  summer,  selling  the  catch  to 
the  little  gasoline  boats  which  chugged  down 
from  the  river  weekly — this  was  their  round  of 
life.  The  gray  houses  seemed  forlorn  and  un- 
tenanted,  the  glassless  windows  barred.  A  bare 
footed,  dark-skinned  woman  peered  furtively  at 
us  as  we  passed,  and  children  played  among  the 
rotted  hulks  of  ancient  luggars  drawn  on  the 
beach.  In  each  yard  was  a  charcoal  furnace 
on  which  the  cooking  was  done,  and  this  was 
usually  shaded  by  a  palm  thatch  or  a  grass  plait. 
There  was  a  water  famine  imminent,  for  the 
April  skies  had  been  cloudless  for  some  weeks 
and  the  only  fresh  water  within  sixty  miles  of 
the  Cheniere  was  that  caught  in  the  cisterns  from 
the  roofs. 

Hen  and  I  put  up  our  little  silk  tent  on  the 
gleaming  shells  just  around  a  point  from  the 
village.  To  eastward  swept  broad  Bayou  St. 


96     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Denis,  winding  on  through  salt  marshes  to  Bara- 
taria  Bay  and  then  the  Gulf.  Across  were 
"  Africa,"  "  John-the-Fool,"  "  Des  Amoureaux," 
"  Old  Cheniere,"  each  a  lonely  camp  of  the 
hardy,  island  people  who,  for  a  century  have 
defied  the  Gulf  hurricanes  and  clung  to  their 
frail  homes.  There  was  very  little  land  within 
miles  that  rose  more  than  twenty  inches  above 
the  Gulf  tides,  and  when  the  sou'easters  blow 
the  natives  gather  about  their  boats,  for  few 
there  are  who  do  not  have  tragic  memories  in 
their  families  of  the  storms  that  destroyed  Che 
niere  Caminada  with  its  twelve  hundred  souls,  or 
the  Last  Island  hurricane,  which  Lafcadio 
Hearn  celebrated  in  his  story  of  "  Chita." 

But  this  April  the  waters  were  very  blue  and 
still.  Hen  and  I  gathered  a  few  twigs  and  grass 
stalks  and  built  a  fire  for  the  evening  meal.  We 
were  at  it  when  we  heard  a  soft  clatter  among 
the  shells  and  two  shy,  brown-eyed  boys  came 
through  the  mangroves.  They  came  to  invite  us 
to  the  "  Ball,"  and,  having  delivered  the  mes 
sage,  retreated  precipitately. 


THE  OLD  STO'  BALLS  97 

We  wandered  around  the  shell  point  to  the 
village  when  the  big,  full  moon  was  rising.  Long 
before  we  reached  the  china  berry  grove  we  heard 
the  tinkle  of  the  guitars.  It  seemed  that  all  the 
islanders  had  met  at  the  "new  sto',"  kept  by 
Juan  Rojas,  a  Filipino-Italian,  the  village  head 
man,  and  were  waiting  for  us,  who  were,  after  a 
fashion,  the  guests  of  honor.  At  least  after  our 
arrival  the  folk  formed  in  an  impromptu  pro 
cession  and  down  the  street-beach  we  went,  the 
guitar  players  and  the  fiddler,  still  tipsily  uncer 
tain  of  his  feet,  leading  the  way.  It  was  a  won 
drous  night.  The  perfume  of  magnolias  and  of 
the  fig  and  orange  trees  was  in  the  soft  air.  The 
luggars,  their  red  sails  furled,  hung  at  anchor 
off  the  beach,  and  here  and  there  as  we  passed 
their  laughing  crews  joined  our  parade.  Men 
and  women,  girls  with  magnolia  buds  in  their 
hair,  boys  in  painful  celluloid  collars,  babies 
hanging  to  mothers'  skirts — on  we  went. . 

The  ball  was  in  the  "  old  sto  V  and  five  smoky 
lanterns  lit  the  rough  floor.  A  languid  young 
fellow  was  peeling  a  candle  over  the  boards,  and 


98     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

at  the  far  end  two  kegs  of  beer  were  on  the  coun 
ter.  The  fiddler  and  the  guitar  players  were 
soon  ensconced  beside  them,  and  without  cere 
mony  began  a  waltz.  The  floor  manager  was  a 
son  of  old  Rojas,  a  handsome,  dark- faced  youth 
who  wore  a  baby-blue  shirt,  yellow  pants  with 
stripes  of  pink  and  purple — such  pants  as  never 
yet  you've  seen — and  as  a  badge  of  authority  a 
huge  red  rose  wrapped  in  tin  foil  about  the  stem. 
He  informed  me  that  his  sweetheart  had  brought 
it  for  him  from  a  Bayou  Perot  camp,  and  that 
she  had  tended  it  all  spring. 

The  younger  folks  were  whirling  over  the  rude 
floor  in  no  time.  The  elders  and  the  round-eyed 
Creole  and  Filipino  children  sat  about  the  old 
sto'  counters,  the  door  was  jammed  with  an  en 
tranced  crowd  of  music  lovers,  the  beer  keg  had 
its  adherents,  and  the  ball  was  on.  Little  girls 
of  nine  with  blackberry  bloom  about  their  necks 
danced  with  solemn,  swarthy-faced  fishers,  and 
between  numbers  wandered  hand  in  hand  out  to 
the  gallery  where  the  live  oaks  threw  their  shad 
ows  athwart  the  shells.  Along  with  the  droning 


THE  OLD  STO'  BALLS  99 

of  the  guitars  and  violin  I  heard  the  splashing 
of  the  giant  gars  in  the  roadstead  and  the  soft 
lap  of  the  waves  under  the  luggars'  bows.  Every 
harsh,  crude  outline  of  the  Cheniere  was  hidden 
in  the  magic  of  the  moon — a  night  of  quiet 
beauty,  of  adolescent  mirth  and  faraway  charm. 
It  was  hard  to  believe  one  was  still  in  Amer 
ica.  Not  even  the  midnight  lunch  of  sto'  bread, 
sausage,  shrimp,  and  beer,  with  the  bemused 
fiddler  trying  to  make  us  a  belated  speech  of  wel 
come,  could  take  away  from  the  entrancement. 
The  younger  folk  had  become  shyly  acquainted 
with  us;  the  girls  out  in  the  gallery  giggled  and 
commented  in  their  queer  hybrid  tongue.  Hen 
tried  some  of  his  college  French  on  them  with 
disastrous  results;  they  and  their  brown-armed 
young  men  laughed.  Then  the  old  fiddler  and 
his  assistants  fell  to  the  music-making.  How 
long  the  ball  went  on  I  do  not  know.  Hen  and 
I  wandered  quietly  off  down  the  shell  beach  at 
two  o'clock  and  crawled  in  our  tent.  But  afar, 
through  the  wondrous  night,  I  still  heard  the 
guitars. 


100   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

We  came  "  down  town  "  late  the  next  day. 
And,  much  to  our  surprise,  we  were  told  that 
there  was  another  ball  on  that  afternoon  and 
night.  In  fact,  as  Captain  Jack  Hammond 
said,  there  would  be  one  continual  ball  as  long 
as  the  islanders  could  detain  the  fiddler  and  keep 
him  sober  enough  to  play.  The  unfortunate  mu 
sicians  were  at  it  again  at  three  P.  M.,  and  with 
two  hours'  intermission  for  supper  the  ball  went 
on  into  another  night  of  dreamy  revelry.  The 
Tiger  boat  stayed  in  port. 

"  These  people,  they  don't  hear  music  often," 
said  Captain  Jack  genially,  "  and  long  as  the 
beer  holds  out  we'll  stick  around." 

I  now  understood  the  Tiger  boat's  schedule. 
If  you  stayed  by  her  long  enough  you  would 
get  "somewhere."  However,  Hen  and  I  were 
so  pleased  with  the  Cheniere,  and,  besides,  had 
no  particular  place  to  go,  that  we  told  Captain 
Jack  we  would  remain.  And  the  next  morning, 
three  "  balls "  having  been  crowded  into  her 
thirty-eight  hours'  stay  in  port,  the  Tiger  boat 
got  away  for  somewhere.  They  carried  Sim  and 


THE  OLD  STO' BALLS          101 

the  two  guitar  men  on  board.  Some  of  the  ladies 
went  out  and  perched  again  on  the  lumber.  But 
some  of  them  decided  to  stay.  Perhaps  they 
hoped  to  catch  another  orchestra  before  night 
fall. 

"  We-all  could  just  dance  all  week,"  said  one 
fair  damsel  (not  so  fair,  either,  now  I  remem 
ber),  "but  dat  Tiger  boat,  he  take  Sim  down 
to  Manila.  If  you-all  stay  'round  maybe  we  get 
a  man  to  fiddle  oft0  dat  Hazel  boat  when  he  come 
(nex'  week." 

We-all  assured  the  fair-dark  one  we-all  would 
stay.  Not  that  we  were  so  mightily  taken  with 
sto'  balls,  but  the  Cheniere  was  interesting.  We 
lounged  with  the  fishers  under  the  china  berry 
trees  and  at  the  sto'.  We  learned  that  Juan 
Rojas,  the  Malay  head-man,  had  been  on  the 
island  for  forty-five  years ;  he  had  deserted  from 
a  Spanish  merchantman  in  New  Orleans  and  fled 
to  the  swamps,  and  this,  we  found,  was  the  gen 
eral  vague  history  of  the  Chino-Malasian  peo 
ples  of  Barataria.  Rojas  had  married  an  Italian 
woman  and  his  handsome  sons  showed  the  breed 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

had  not  been  in  vain.  The  young  men  wandered 
Sunday  morning  along  the  beach,  giving  oranges 
to  their  perfumed  sweethearts.  In  the  afternoon 
they  got  up  another  ball !  That  is,  they  waltzed 
without  music,  but  to  a  great  clattering  of  feet 
on  the  sto'  boards. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  beach  was  a  typical 
colony  of  the  Gulf  coast  lakes,  a  seine  company 
whose  luggars  were  shrimp  catching  in  the  lower 
waters.  The  six  men  of  the  seine  company  had 
been  brought  down  from  New  Orleans  under  the 
promise  of  making  from  four  to  ten  dollars  a 
day  by  holding  a  share  in  the  company.  They 
were  a  forlorn  lot,  barefooted,  ragged,  in  debt 
to  the  sto'  and  unable  to  get  away.  We  had 
heard  many  tales  of  peonage  down  in  the  "  Free 
State."  This  was  an  instance.  The  men  had  been 
advanced  a  few  dollars  and  plenty  of  whiskey 
and  now,  no  matter  how  they  toiled  at  the  seine, 
they  seemed  unable  to  pay  for  it.  No  boat  would 
take  them  away.  Two  who  tried  to  walk  north 
through  the  illimitable  marsh  were  lost,  and 
when  the  boss  went  after  them  with  a  shotgun 


THE  OLD  rSTO*  BALLS          103 

and  a  skiff  they  were  glad  to  get  back  to  the 
Cheniere. 

In  the  evening  we  were  approached  by  two 
bronzed  young  Germans  who  crept  under  the 
mangroves  to  our  tent  and  told  their  troubles. 
They  were  educated  young  Teutons,  but  spoke 
little  English.  Otto  had  been  to  school  eight 
years  in  Posen;  Paul  was  a  tanner  of  Darm 
stadt.  They  had  shipped  to  come  to  America 
and  deserted  on  the  New  Orleans  levees.  Wan 
dering  about  the  city,  they  had  come  on  a  man 
who  told  them  of  the  money  to  be  made  in  the 
Barataria  shrimp  camps.  They  wanted  to  get 
on  to  Kansas,  where  Paul's  sister  lived,  but  had 
only  the  vaguest  idea  where  Kansas  was.  So 
they  came  down  on  a  bayou  boat  to  Clark's  and 
entered  the  seine  crew. 

Each  man  had  a  share,  the  Captain  a  share, 
the  boat  a  share,  the  seine  a  share,  and  the  Cap 
tain's  wife  a  share  for  doing  the  cooking.  All 
expenses  were  shared  proportionally,  but  when 
it  came  to  profits  the  fishers  were  at  the  Cap 
tain's  mercy,  for  he  alone  took  the  catch  to  New 


104    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Orleans  each  week,  and,  as  Otto  put  it,  "  Mostly 
it's  two  dollars  and  forty  cents  in  debt  to  him  we 
are.  Someway  our  accounts  run  all  the  wrong 
way,  and  we  owe  the  boss  eighty  dollars,  he  says. 
And  we  no  shoes,  no  money;  and  no  boat  will 
take  us  off  the  island  if  the  boss  says  no.  Ach, 
is  dis  a  free  country,  dis  America  we  come  to? " 

The  work  was  hard.  The  seine  company  was 
out  at  four  in  the  morning,  the  men  wading  to 
their  necks  to  draw  the  shrimp  seines.  Break 
fast  came  at  ten  o'clock,  although  the  usual 
coffee  had  been  served  on  rising.  Bean  stew  with 
chunks  of  pork  fat,  bread,  and  coffee  was  the 
breakfast.  Otto  said  that  dinner  was  the  same, 
except  that  the  beans  were  white  instead  of  red! 
The  crew  complained  that,  though  every  man 
paid  for  it,  the  ,fare  at  the  boss's  camp  was  far 
better  than  the  crew's.  And  a  favored  man  or 
two  ate  at  the  boss's  table — there  was  always  a 
favored  lieutenant  who  helped  outvote  the  seine 
haulers. 

"  Here's  Irish  John,  he  never  eats  with  us. 
And  dey  had  ham  and  butter  and  cheese  on  the 


I 


THE  OLD  STO'  BALLS          105 

Captain's  table,  too.  And  last  week  the  Cap 
tain's  wife  made  a  cake  and  all  the  island  women 
came  to  eat  it — and  we  pay  for  dat  cake!" 
Paul's  hopeless  wrath  was  almost  comical.  "  We 
pay  for  clothes  and  beds  and  oil  and  repairs  to 
dat  seine,  and  last  week  we  send  up  a  hundred 
hands  of  fish  and  sixty  baskets  of  shrimp.  It 
ought  to  be  worth  a  hundred  dollars,  but  the 
boss  he  come  back  and  say:  *  Boys,  we  lose  forty 
dollars  on  dat  catch ! ' 

The  two  German  lads  went  on  with  their  griev 
ances.  We  made  them  sit  at  our  campfire  and 
have  supper.  "  Every  time  dat  Tiger  boat  come 
to  the  Cheniere  we  have  a  ball,"  went  on  the 
castaway,  "dance  and  have  some  beer!  Dat's 
to  keep  the  men  from  getting  ugly,  but  we  never 
get  out  of  debt." 

(Since  our  sojourn  there,  the  Federal  Gov 
ernment,  let  me  add,  has  interfered  in  the  Bara- 
taria  peonage  and  has  sent  one  of  the  "  Big 
Chino  "  bosses  and  proprietor  of  a  shrimp  camp 
to  the  penitentiary.  It  is  now  well  broken  up.) 

Paul  and  Otto  spoke  with  contempt  of  their 


106    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

fellow-workmen.  In  all  matters  of  company  di 
vision  the  men  were  so  ignorant  that  computa 
tions  were  made  by  counting  beans.  "  So  many 
beans,  so  many  dollars,"  added  Paul.  "  Ach, 
and  dose  people  look  down  on  us ! " 

I  think  that  hurt  them  worst  of  all.  The 
Chino-Italian,  Malay-Cajun  polyglot  fishermen 
looked  down  on  these  two  sturdy,  clean-blooded 
lads  of  the  North!  I  asked  them  why  they  did 
not  appeal  to  their  consul  in  New  Orleans  by 
letter,  and  Otto  shrugged  with  a  smile.  They 
were  deserters!  And  they  had  come  to  be 
Americans,  but  free  men. 

We  condoled  as  best  we  might — and  gave 
them  some  of  our  provisions.  Otto  begged  us 
not  to  appear  too  friendly  to  them  when  in  the 
village.  So  we  met  the  boys  the  next  day,  when 
all  the  younger  men  were  kicking  a  rude  foot 
ball  down  the  beach,  the  weather  being  too 
squally  for  the  fishers  to  go  out.  Otto  was  the 
gayest  of  them  all — he  raced  and  yelled  and  out- 
kicked  them  in  sheer  excess  of  youth.  Despite 
their  lot  they  were  the  merriest,  carefree  adven- 


THE  OLD  STO*  BALLS          107 

turers  I  ever  met.  Paul  came  up  to  me  and 
whispered:  "  Anodder  ball  to-night!  And 
more  beans — red  ones  dis  time!" 

When  we  went  down  to  their  camp  among 
the  alligator  pears  and  scraggly  palms  later, 
Otto  was  making  the  marooned  men  roar  by 
mimicking  the  Captain's  wife.  He  wore  a  sprig 
of  china-berry  bloom  in  his  hat  and  took  it  off 
to  hold  out  to  us,  while  Paul  held  aloft  a  card 
board  smeared  with  red  beans:  "Help  the 
Poor!" 

The  island  girls  came — five  of  them — to  our 
camp  and  invited  us  to  the  ball.  They  had  got 
a  fiddler  from  John-the-Fool  Island.  And  an 
other  night  of  dancing.  The  next  day  they 
began  again  at  ten  in  the  morning.  "  Dat  music 
he  won't  stay  long,"  explained  the  fair  one.  Hen 
and  I  attended — and  also  a  sixth  ball  the  fol 
lowing  night.  The  entire  population  was  laid 
out  after  that. 

The  last  ball  was  at  a  residence,  and  the 
guests  assisted  at  moving  out  the  furniture  to 
make  room  for  the  fete.  The  next  day  we  heard 


108    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

the  host  lamenting  that  no  one  was  around  to 
help  move  it  back.  So  it  stayed  outside  a  week, 
and  the  family  ate  in  the  shade  of  the  china  berry 
tree  and  looked  at  their  dismantled  domicile.  I 
asked  one  of  them  if  I  could  not  assist  in  moving 
the  stuff  in. 

"Oh,  sho',  Man!"  said  he.  "Let  dat  furni 
ture  stay  out.  Dat  Coquille  boat,  she  come 
along  nex'  Saturday,  and  mebbe  we  catch  some 
more  music  fo'  a  ball." 

Happy  island!  Since  we  left  there  Clark 
Cheniere  has  been  battered  and  riven  by  hurri 
cane,  its  oaks  twisted ;  and  its  houses  lean  on  their 
foundations  along  the  white  shell  beach.  But 
I  doubt  not  that  the  simple,  hardy  lake  folk  are 
still  watching  to  "  catch  more  music." 


CHAPTER   VI 

BLACKBERRY   ROMANCE 

YOUNG  ROJAS  limped  down  to  the 
beach  the  next  day  and  confided  to  me, 
"  Dis  spohtin'  life,  it's  too  much.  But  if 
I  was  in  N'Awlyins  I'd  be  a  spoht.  I'd  like  to 
travel  round  and  spend  fo'  or  five  dollehs  a  day 
jes'  like  a  millionaire!" 

Madame  Rojas  had,  in  her  room  behind  the 
Store,  a  tiny  altar  and  the  pictures  of  the  Sta 
tions  of  the  Cross  about  the  walls.  Now  and 
then  a  priest  called  at  the  Cheniere,  she  ex 
plained,  and  they  had  it  "  fixed  up  "  for  him. 

The  only  other  evidence  of  the  higher  life  was 
the  school.  It  was  closed.  The  two  pupils  had 
gone  to  New  Orleans  for  Easter!  The  master 
wandered  disconsolately  about.  He  was  a  quer- 

109 


110    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

ulous  and  broken-down  fiddler,  not  at  all  pop 
ular  because  he  refused  to  fiddle  for  the  balls. 
He  told  me  that  the  heads  of  families  were  sup 
posed  to  pay  a  dollar  a  month  for  the  school, 
but  after  the  first  few  months  nobody  paid,  so 
the  school  always  closed  sooner  or  later, 

"  Anyhow,"  he  added,  "  why  do  they  need  to 
read  and  write  ?  They  are  the  happiest  and  most 
carefree  people  on  the  earth,  I  do  believe.  When 
I  first  landed  here  I  used  to  scold  'em.  But  no 
body  cared.  Just  listen  to  those  children  play 
ing  on  the  beach.  Their  parents  won't  pay  and 
I  can't  make  'em  pay.  And  will  you  tell  me 
what  tongue  they  are  talking?  It  isn't  French — 
it  isn't  English — it  isn't  Spanish,  nor  Filipino. 
What  is  it?" 

We  left  that  cadaverous  pedagogue  bewail 
ing.  The  islanders  looked  on  him  as  somewhat 
"  cracked,"  I  believe.  We  got  more  insight  into 
social  customs.  We  had  wondered  at  the  many 
Yankee  names  of  the  people  until  it  was  ex 
plained.  They — the  Browns  and  Smiths — were 
all  corruptions  from  some  other  tongues.  "  Bar- 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       111 

onne,"  for  instance,  had  become  "  Brown."  We 
were  confused  also  by  the  island  habit  of  calling 
all  women  by  the  first  names  of  their  husbands. 
The  wife  of  Francisco  Vasquez  was  not  only 
Mrs.  Vasquez,  but  also  Mrs.  Francisco.  And 
they  all  had  nicknames,  too,  so  when  we  went  to 
buy  bread,  or  call  on  someone,  we  had  no  end  of 
confusion  finding  the  exact  person  wanted. 
Clark  Cheniere  would  drive  a  census-taker 
crazy. 

The  next  day  a  sou'easter  blew  which  mauled 
the  shell  beach  until  it  shook.  Hen  and  I  had  a 
task  holding  our  tent  pegs  down.  By  sunset  the 
whole  curve  of  the  shore  was  a  rolling  carpet  of 
pink  and  blue  and  white  shells  lifted  up  and 
flung  musically  at  our  feet  and  washed  back  to 
come  in  on  the  next  surge.  The  next  morning 
the  shore  line  was  entirely  changed,  the  shells 
being  piled  in  long  reefs  far  over  the  green 
marsh. 

It  was  still  breezy.  Hen  and  I  had  a  hard 
time  getting  breakfast.  There  was  no  fuel  ex 
cept  the  flimsy  weed  drift.  It  kept  one  of  us 


112   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

busy  holding  the  fire  down  under  the  irons  while 
the  other  made  coffee  and  boiled  the  oatmeal. 
Half  a  dozen  times  we  had  to  chase  that  fire 
down  the  beach,  bring  back  the  remnants,  and 
start  all  over  again.  It  enlarged  our  vocabulary 
immensely.  The  sou'easter  bellied  the  little  tent 
tight  as  a  drum,  and  the  pegs  threatened  to  pull 
from  the  shells.  Finally  we  dropped  it,  lit  our 
pipes,  and  wandered  up  the  beach  around  the 
oak  point  to  see  what  our  friends  of  the  Che- 
niere  were  doing. 

"Probably  making  another  ball,"  said  Hen. 
"  Balls  and  turtle  eggs — they're  getting  on  my 
nerves.  But  what  a  morning — wow !  I  feel  like 
my  hair  was  growing  in  again.  Whoof!" 

But  the  festive  populace  was  resting.  The 
schoolmaster  was  sitting  on  a  crab  boat  gazing 
northward,  whence  the  school  should  reappear. 
Juan  Rojas  smoked  on  his  sto'  gallery  and 
watched  his  sons  paint  a  boat.  The  luggars  rode 
at  their  moorings  and  the  fishers  slept  under  the 
china  trees.  A  pirogue  man  came  in  from  the 
marshes  behind  the  Cheniere  with  a  few  teal  and 


We  dug  through  the  cane  to  the  swamp. 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       113 

dos  gris  and  turtles,  and  the  children  gathered 
about.  But  all  day  the  lazy  island  dozed  in  the 
sun  and  breeze.  Hen  decided  to  try  his  tarpon 
gear  at  gar  fishing,  and  this  becoming  noised 
about,  the  entire  population  gathered  at  the  pier. 
The  islanders  smiled — catch  a  gar  on  that  foolish 
little  line  and  rod?  Le  nom  de  Dieu — what 
would  these  Yankees  try  next? 

"  I'll  show  'em,"  growled  Hen  grimly,  and  he 
cast  prettily  off  the  pier  head  and  threshed  the 
surf.  He  had  a  rise  or  two,  and  then,  while  I 
was  in  the  sto',  I  heard  a  series  of  wild  yells.  I 
discovered  Hen  fighting  his  way  along  the  pier 
among  the  natives.  He  had  hooked  something 
all  right.  Presently  a  big  gar  charged  out  of 
water,  then  straight  seaward.  The  line  swung 
out;  the  natives  gazed.  No  line  would  hold  an 
alligator  gar!  Hen  watched  his  reel  anxiously. 
Then  finally  he  turned  the  big  fish,  played  him 
back,  stopped  a  rush  or  two,  and  the  islanders 
gasped.  The  gar  was  tiring — and  he  hadn't 
broken  the  "jigger  rod"! 

Round  about  the  pier  head  the  big  fellow 


114   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

threshed,  with  Hen  holding  in  and  trying  to  keep 
him  seaward.  But  finally,  as  he  was  grinning 
triumphantly  at  the  astonished  natives,  the  gar 
made  a  last  exhausted  rush  under  the  pier, 
whipped  about  a  piling,  and  —  well,  Hen 
groaned ! 

But  I  heard  another  yell.  Out  from  the  shore 
charged  a  swarthy  Manilaman.  He  carried  a 
club  and,  dashing  into  the  surf,  he  began  maul 
ing  Hen's  gar  over  the  head.  Into  the  water 
swarmed  every  boy  on  the  island,  and  when  Hen 
discomfitedly  reeled  in  the  remainder  of  his  line 
the  islanders  were  carrying  a  six-foot  gar  in 
procession  to  the  beach.  It  was  a  woeful  finish 
to  a  gallant  fight.  Hen  was  wrathful.  "  Con 
found  the  muckers!  I'd  rather  the  fish  got  away 
than  have  'em  club  it  to  death.  They're  no 
sportsmen ! " 

They  were  not.  Just  why  a  man  should  want 
to  catch  a  gar  was  beyond  them.  "  Dat  fish  no 
good,  M'sieu !  He  mek  no  gumbo,  no  cou'bouil- 
lion — no  nuttin' !  " 

"  I'm  going  to  fry  him!  "  growled  Hen. 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       115 

They  scratched  their  heads.  No  telling  what 
a  Yankee  would  do! 

Paul  and  Otto  came  with  us  and  we  lugged 
that  horny-hided  fish  to  camp.  The  boys  spent 
half  a  day  trying  to  scale  him  and  whack  off 
the  tough  yellow  meat.  He  was  as  palatable  as 
a  paper  box. 

The  next  morning  a  shy  youngster  clothed  in 
a  shirt  made  of  a  flour  sack  came  to  camp.  He 
invited  us  to  go  blackberrying.  Blackberries! 
Where?  I  gazed  about  the  watery  wilderness. 
The  lad  dived  off  in  the  bush  without  giving  us 
details.  Hen  concluded  he  would  stay  in  camp 
and  repair  his  tackle  and  digestion  after  that  gar 
supper  of  last  night.  But  I  went  to  the  village 
with  visions  of  wandering  down  some  bosky  dell 
with  a  tin  pail  and  a — a  girl.  You  know,  if 
you're  of  the  North  or  East.  Sort  of  a  cow- 
pasture  romance  with  blackberry  flavor. 

But  when  I  reached  Clark's  a  good-sized  gaso 
line  stern- wheeler  rocked  at  the  pier,  and  all  the 
adolescent  population  of  the  island  was  waiting 
for  me.  There  were  buckets  all  right,  and  girls, 


116   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

too — and  children  and  babies  and  rollicking 
young  men,  and  we  chugged  away  across  the 
blue  water  with  chatter  and  smiles.  In  a  minute 
a  charcoal  fire  was  going  for  coffee  on  the  aft 
deck  roof,  and  they  got  out  loaves  of  bread. 
Jo  Rojas  beckoned  me  into  the  tiny  pilot  house. 
He  placed  the  wheel  in  my  hands  and  pointed 
to  a  dim  blur  on  the  horizon.  "  HoF  her  der'," 
he  announced  and  disappeared  in  the  crowded 
freight  hold. 

I  steered  vaguely  on,  the  slap-slap  of  the 
paddle-wheel  and  the  laughter  of  the  excursion 
ists  coming  to  my  ears.  A  good-sized  sea  was 
kicking  up  off  the  roadstead  and  presently  the 
spray  was  flying  over  the  fore  decks  and  into 
the  pilot-house  windows.  She  rolled  a  good  bit 
on  the  course,  so  I  held  more  southerly,  still 
keeping  my  eyes  on  "  der',"  as  directed.  But 
"  der'  "  seemed  a  long  way  off.  We  pounded 
on  half  an  hour,  and  I  wondered  why  I  wasn't 
relieved  or  given  further  sailing  directions.  I 
could  see  no  one.  Apparently  they  were  all 
below  in  the  freight  hold,  for  the  chatter  was 
more  subdued. 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       117 

The  seas  pounded  up,  and  presently  I 
brought  about  so  as  to  fetch  the  place  which 
I  now  made  out  as  an  oak-covered  point  with 
the  marsh  behind  it.  I  cleared  my  eyes  of  the 
suds  and  stared  down.  At  times  the  sandy  bot 
tom  heaved  up  uncomfortably  near  and  I  saw  a 
shark  or  two,  but  no  blackberries. 

As  I  fetched  up  under  the  lee  the  shoals 
spread  wider.  I  grew  alarmed  and  began  to 
pound  on  the  rear  wall,  for  the  signal  cord  did 
not  get  response.  And  the  mauling  engine 
probably  defeated  my  efforts.  Then,  when  a 
bar  seemed  to  shut  off  further  progress,  I 
brought  the  tub  about  and  out  to  sea,  dropped 
the  wheel,  and  ran  aft  along  the  running-board. 
The  hold  was  battened  tight,  but  I  kicked  and 
scratched  at  the  side  hatch. 

"  Hey,  you!  What's  the  matter?  Where  are 
we  going?  " 

Then  I  yanked  the  door  open.  I  stared 
down.  Honest,  every  youth  in  the  lot  was  hug 
ging  a  girl — everyone  in  the  lot!  And  every 
baby  had  its  face  smeared  with  flies  and  mo 
lasses  from  ear  to  ear. 


118    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

"Hey,  you!"  I  roared.  "Where  the  devil 
do  you  want  this  boat  to  go? " 

And  while  that  syrup-smeared  court  of  Venus 
stared  back  at  me,  the  boat  hit  bottom  with  an 
awful  wallop.  It  all  but  put  me  off.  A  barrel 
of  water  soused  over  and  onto  those  Cupids  and 
Adonises  and  Venuses.  Jo  Rojas  floundered 
over  them  and  to  the  deck.  I  was  back  at  the 
wheel  by  that  time.  Jo  grabbed  a  pole  and 
began  to  swear  at  the  enamored  ones  who  poked 
their  heads  out. 

"  San  Sebastino!  Push  'er  head  round!  Git 
'er  round,  you-all !  " 

They  heaved  and  pried  while  the  waves 
bumped  us  harder  on.  But  finally  we  were 
bumped  clear  over  the  bar  into  better  water  and 
Jo  threw  an  anchor.  He  wiped  his  brow. 

"  By  Gar,  dat  some  smash !  Git  yo'  buckets, 
you-all,  and  git  asho'." 

It  was  some  smash.  The  babies  were  yowling 
and  rubbing  molasses  onto  their  bumped  heads, 
and  the  damsels  were  scolding.  But  we  got 
ashore  with  expedition,  the  skiff  taking  a  load 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       119 

and  the  rest  jumping  in  and  wading.  Then, 
with  gurgles  and  shrieks  of  joy,  they  fell  on  the 
blackberries,  which  grew  in  a  half  curve  under 
the  scrub  of  oaks,  latanier  palms,  and  prickly 
pears.  They  were  big  and  black  and  luscious. 
Once  in  a  while  some  busy  picker  would  yell 
and  we  would  assemble  to  kill  a  black  moccasin. 
Once  a  small  boy  disappeared  from  sight  in  the 
thicket  and  after  much  trouble  was  pulled  out 
of  a  deep  hole. 

"  Yo'  be  careful  of  dem  hide-ups,"  warned  Jo. 
"Dem  ol'  pirates  done  dig  this  beach  all  to 
pieces." 

I  looked  into  the  hole.  It  was  an  excavation. 
There  were  four  of  them  along  the  overgrown 
beach.  I  concluded  that  they  had  been  dug  in 
search  of  La  Fitte's  fabled  treasure,  as  had  the 
holes  in  the  Salvador  beaches  on  the  upper  lakes, 
but  Jo  insisted  that  the  pirates  had  dug  them. 

We  had  gallons  and  gallons  of  berries  in  no 
time.  Also  many  red  bugs.  Everyone  was  rub 
bing  and  scratching  when  we  got  back  to  the 
boat.  Jo  came  to  me  rather  embarrassed  when 


120    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

we  got  over  the  bar.  "  Will  you-all  steer  dis 
boat  home?  We-all  a-goin'  to  jolly  dem  girls 
some.  We-all  clean  fo'got  you  comin'  oveh. 
We  bring  yo'  some  coffee  dis  time." 

I  agreed.  By  this  time  the  Cheniere  Cupids 
had  added  a  layer  of  blackberry  jam  to  their 
syrupped  countenances  and  the  freight  hold 
was  not  a  delectable  place.  The  lovers  did  not 
seem  to  mind.  I  suppose,  however,  that  if  one 
is  going  to  be  loved  one  may  as  well  sit  in  black 
berry  jam  as  out  of  it.  A  fellow  could  hold 
his  girl  with  one  hand  and  scratch  red  bugs  with 
the  other. 

I  brought  that  sticky  cargo  of  Eros  home  safe 
enough.  It  was  dark  when  I  came  to  camp  with 
a  pail  of  mushy  berries.  Hen  and  his  dyspepsia 
were  sitting  by  the  fire  fighting  mosquitoes. 

"By  Golly,"  he  commented,  "if  I'd  been 
there  I'd  have  wrecked  the  whole  smear!  They 
wouldn't  have  spooned  on  me!" 

There  is  a  man  with  no  poetry  in  his  soul. 
Sto'  balls,  girls,  turtle  eggs,  love,  blackberry 
jam — nothing  touched  him.  It  will  be  a  long 


The  cypress  reflect  their  beauty  from  the  swamp  lakes. 


Mao 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       121 

back-track  to  the  Fountain  of  Youth  for  him, 
I'm  thinking.  But  for  me — why,  I  felt  appre 
ciably  more  hair  than  I  had  had  in  the  morning. 
Hen,  with  his  sardonic  levity,  concluded  that 
what  I  felt  was  molasses  and  blackberry  smear. 
However,  I  let  it  go.  There  is  little  use  in  ar 
guing  on  the  higher  things  with  a  man  who  will 
try  to  eat  an  alligator  gar. 

We  inquired  further  into  local  history.  In 
the  last  yellow  fever  epidemic — 1904 — fifty-five 
of  the  ninety-two  inhabitants  of  the  Cheniere 
had  it.  It  scourged  every  house  in  the  village, 
but  only  three  had  died.  A  beach  character 
called  "  Red  "  had  a  peculiar  story  to  relate  of 
one  instance  he  knew.  "  Der  was  wan  bad 
modder.  She  had  feveh  and  she  let  her  baby 
isuck  dat  poison  all  out  from  her  breast.  Dat 
baby,  he  die,  but  dat  modder,  she  get  well.  I 
sho'  wouldn't  be  any  modder  like  dat." 

The  Hazel  boat  brought  two  more  men  down. 
TX7r  talked  with  them  and  found  they  were  typi- 
*  'bos  "  who  had  beat  their  way  to  New  Or 
leans  by  rail  and  had  taken  a  levee  captain's 


122    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

word  that  wondrous  riches  were  to  be  made  in 
the  shrimp  fishing.  But  they  stood  on  the  wharf 
that  first  day  and  eyed  the  seine  company  strug 
gling  with  its  net  out  beyond  the  gentle  surf 
with  great  disfavor.  The  men  were  warily 
dodging  the  great  stingrays  that  had  become 
entangled  in  the  seine,  and  the  hungry  sharks 
following  to  seize  the  dead  and  escaping  fish 
made  the  water  boil  around  the  luggar.  One  of 
the  'bos  had  gingerly  tried  to  assist  hauling,  but 
hastily  clambered  out,  despite  the  seine  cap 
tain's  swearing. 

"  I  don't  cotton  to  this  game  a  whole  lot,"  he 
remarked.       I  never  did  love  fish,  anyhow." 

The  boss  told  me  later  he  would  ship  the  'bos 
back  to  the  city.  They  would  only  spread  dis 
content  among  his  crew  if  he  kept  them,  grant 
ing  that  they  might  be  induced  to  work.  I  met 
them  lonesomely  sitting  on  the  beach  at  dark, 
slapping  mosquitoes.  They  asked  what  we  were 
doing  down  in  Barataria,  and  when  we  said 
we  were  on  a  pleasure  trip  they  roared  with 
laughter. 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       123 

"Pal,  you  got  some  new  ideas  of  pleasure! 
I  never  see  such  a  layout  since  I  been  on  the 
road." 

We  were  at  the  schoolmaster's  the  next  morn 
ing,  idling  a  beautiful  Sunday  over  coffee  and 
conversation,  discussing  the  mystery  of  our  lost 
canoe,  of  which  no  word  had  come  on  the  Hazel, 
when  one  of  the  oddest  men  I  ever  saw  came  in, 
He  was  a  wiry,  wrinkled,  coffee-colored  little 
bundle  of  mingled  animation  and  shyness,  ges 
ticulating  and  interrupting  as  the  pedagogue 
translated  his  nervous  speech  to  us.  He  was 
Allesjandro,  sailing  master  of  a  sloop  that  had 
come  in  from  Cutler's  Island.  Cutler's  Island 
was  the  home  of  Baron  Von  Gaal,  the  owner  of 
the  sloop  and  a  person  of  note.  The  schoolmas 
ter  enlarged  on  the  Baron  and  it  caught  our 
fancy. 

The  Baron  was  an  expatriated  Austrian  gen 
tleman,  who  had  fought  in  the  Civil  War,  made 
a  fortune  in  New  Orleans  in  the  lottery,  lost  it, 
and  retired  to  a  bit  of  Eden  in  lower  Barataria. 
Allesjandro  was  his  major-domo,  and  a  more 


124    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

loyal  never  served.  He  couldn't  say  enough 
about  the  Baron,  the  garden,  the  oysters,  the 
fishing  at  Cutler's,  and  wound  up  with  a  pro 
found  bow  and  an  invitation  to  visit  his  master's 
domain. 

Hen  looked  up  with  the  first  show  of  interest 
since  he  ate  the  alligator  gar.  "Some  class! 
Us  for  Cutler's!" 

"But  we  started  for  Florida,"  I  argued — 
"  and  the  Fountain " 

"Right-O.  But  we  can't  walk.  I've  given 
up  the  canoe — the  railroad  people  are  hopeless. 
There's  a  Manilaman  up  the  beach  who  offered 
to  sell  a  pirogue.  Let's  buy  it  and  start  some 
where  and  wind  up  at  the  Baron's." 

That  seemed  uncertain  enough  to  be  enticing. 
We  had  heard  a  deal  about  the  country  across 
the  chain  of  lakes  to  the  west.  Clear  days  a 
dim  line  of  forest  showed  above  the  water. 
Allesjandro  offered  to  take  us  over  in  the  sloop 
if  we  bought  the  pirogue.  We  all  went  to  see  it. 
Allesjandro  knew  the  former  owner — one  Juli- 
ano,  also  a  Manilaman.  He  vouched  that  it  was 
a  bargain  at  ten  dollars. 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       125 

We  looked  it  over.  It  was  sadly  unlike  the 
beautiful  sea-going  canoe  we  had  ordered  from 
Old  Town,  Maine.  Thirteen  feet  long,  twenty- 
eight  inches  wide,  hewed  from  a  single  cypress 
log,  yet  it  was  a  deal  more  seaworthy  than  the 
usual  trapper's  dugouts.  It  had  a  decked  space 
fore  and  aft  and  a  bit  of  coaming  to  ward  off 
the  splash.  We  looked  at  it,  estimated  our  pile 
of  dunnage,  and  then  I  tried  it  out  and  was 
swamped  trying  to  get  about  the  point  to  camp. 
Hen  ran  along  the  point  yelling  advice,  which 
was  good,  seeing  that  he  had  never  been  in  a 
pirogue  in  his  life.  But  Allesjandro  was  full 
of  praise.  I  pounded  up  through  the  surf  to 
camp. 

Juliano,  Allesjandro,  and  Hen  formed  a  re 
ception  committee  and  shook  my  dripping  hand. 

"Good  old  scout!"  congratulated  Hen — 
"you  only  capsized  once,  didn't  you?" 

That  was  unnecessary.  However,  Juliano 
and  Allesjandro  made  it  up.  I  was  "  wan  great 
beeg  pirogue  man."  I  could  go  anywhere  in 
safety — around  the  world,  or  to  Mawgan  City, 
or  anywhere.  Old  Juliano  was  touched  at  the 


126   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

thought  of  parting  with  his  lake  pirogue.  It 
was  named  Bantayan,  after  his  native  town  in 
Mindanao,  and  positively  he  must  weep  when 
he  thought  of  selling  it.  Yet  he  would — for  ten 
dollars.  But  only  to  distinguished  strangers 
like  ourselves. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  we  can  lose — for  ten 
dollars,"  said  Hen.  "  Only  we'll  be  taking 
some  awful  chances  with  all  our  duffle  in  that 
thirteen-foot  coffin.  But  we  can't  stay  ma 
rooned  here  all  summer." 

So  we  bought  the  Bantayan — with  misgiv 
ings,  I  assure  you.  That  was  the  beginning  of 
many  episodes.  We  had  much  to  learn.  There 
is  much  to  relate.  We  never  dreamed  that  this 
little  green,  red,  and  yellow  painted  log  of  cy 
press  was  to  be  our  home  for  close  to  four 
months,  nor  that  we  should  come  to  love  it.  I 
shall  tell  of  just  one  instance  of  that.  I  recall 
that  over  in  a  Belle  River  camp  Hen  and  I 
thought  of  renaming  our  dugout.  Hen  said 
Bantayan  was  barbarous.  So  we  thought  and 
thought.  Once  I  had  a  girl  named  Ethel. 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       127 

Once  Hen  had  a  girl  named  Sadie.  That  was 
long  ago,  when  we  had  more  hair. 

So  I  proposed  that  we  christen  the  pirogue 
Ethel. 

"  No,"  said  Hen,  "  Sadie." 

I  insisted  on  Ethel.  Hen  stuck  out  for  Sadie. 
And  we  wrangled  all  day  and  all  night  and  some 
the  next  day.  We  were  amazed  at  our  chivalry. 
I  had  never  imagined  it  in  a  man  who  would 
turn  up  his  nose  at  turtle  eggs  as  Hen  did.  But, 
as  I  said,  we  quarreled  over  the  christening^, 
with  a  little  pot  of  black  paint  there  all  ready 
to  slap  on,  and  a  bottle  of  beer  to  break  over 
her  bow,  first  carefully  removing  the  beer  from 
the  bottle. 

Finally  we  hit  a  happy  compromise.  The 
Bantayan  was  a  boat  with  her  stern  just  like 
her  bow,  low,  sharp,  rakish.  A  stranger  could 
not  have  told  one  from  the  other,  for  she  would 
paddle  either  way.  So  I  named  the  bow  end, 
where  I  paddled,  "  Ethel,"  and  Hen  named  the 
stern  "Sadie.5*  Ethel  was  painted  on  her  port 
bow  and  Sadie  on  her  starboard  quarter.  She 


128    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

was  Ethel  to  all  the  folks  on  the  left  bank,  and 
Sadie  to  all  those  on  the  right. 

That  was  fine,  I  recall,  for  a  time,  until  once 
we  got  into  a  walloping  big  whirl  that  took  us 
around  and  around  so  that  we  couldn't  tell 
whether  it  was  Ethel  going  upstream  or  Sadie 
coming  down.  That  rapid  gave  us  such  a  scare 
that  Hen  proposed  we  recant  and  go  back  to 
our  original  name. 

"  Say,"  he  began  when  we  had  got  ashore  and 
in  camp,  "  I  never  was  so  much  gone  on  that 
girl,  anyhow.  I  just  stuck  out  for  Sadie  be 
cause  you  said  Ethel.  Darn  their  pelts,  let's 
cut  'em  all  and  be  virtuous  and  refined." 

"Old  top,"  I  rejoined,  "I'm  right  with  you. 
One  girl  is  bad  enough,  but  two!  How  could 
that  boat  get  through  without  being  wrecked? 
She's  a  fine  little  scow,  and  Bantayan's  her 


name ! " 


We  went  right  down  there  to  the  bank  with 
brotherly  accord  and  scraped  those  two  girls 
off,  for'ard  and  aft,  with  our  pancake  flipper. 
So  Bmtayan  she  was  once  more,  and  we 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       129 

breathed  freer,  and  sailed  gayer,  and  slept 
sounder,  and  our  hair  grew  quicker,  taller, 
bushier — it  was  fine  spring  weather  for  hair. 

But  to  go  back.  Allesjandro  said  the  seas 
were  too  big  to  tackle  in  our  craft.  When  we 
had  loaded  our  stuff  on  the  sloop  and  got  away 
from  the  roadstead,  leaving  all  the  islanders 
staring  amazedly  at  the  celerity  with  which 
Yankees  did  things  when  they  made  up  their 
minds,  the  lake  was  rolling  with  whitecaps. 
The  little  pirogue  floundered  and  filled  at  the 
towline  and  Hen  and  I  looked  down  at  it  with 
some  misgivings. 

"  Brilliant  idea  number  twenty-two,"  mur 
mured  Hen.  "Did  you  propose  this  or  did  I?  " 

Allesjandro  added  the  comforting  after 
thought  that  the  Cheniere  people  all  said  we 
would  certainly  be  drowned  if  we  tried  to  cross 
to  Bayou  des  Amoureaux  with  such  a  load  in 
our  pirogue.  However,  with  the  public  eye  on 
us  now  we  wouldn't  have  backed  out  if  we  could. 

The  doughty  little  Manilaman  towed  our 
pirogue  across  the  lake  and  up  under  an  oak- 


130    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

grown  point  of  the  far  shore.  The  short, 
choppy  seas  of  the  great,  shallow  lake  were 
mean  to  handle  in  getting  ashore  with  our 
luggage.  It  took  two  loads  to  make  it, 
and  then  Allesjandro  waved  adieu  from 
his  sloop  and  left  us.  We  sat  down  on  our 
stuff  piled  on  the  beach,  looked  at  that  gay 
red  and  green  and  yellow  log  which  was  to 
transport  us  through  the  coast  wilderness  and 
mentally  asked:  "What  next?" 

The  lake  shores  were  entirely  impassable. 
Everywhere  from  the  narrow  shell  reef  the  bot 
tomless  salt  swamp  hemmed  us  in.  On  the  other 
side  the  seas  pounded,  the  sou'easter  eating 
large  holes  in  the  shell  bank  and  rushing 
through  in  threatening  fashion. 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  this  looks  good,"  said  Hen. 
"  Which  way  do  you  think  is  the  best  out  of  this 
hole?  Did  you  find  out  just  where  the  bayou 
ran  out  of  the  swamp? " 

"  No.    I  thought  you  did  that." 

"Blessed  if  I  did!  Man,  we've  got  to  get 
over  this  habit  of  merely  going  somewhere  with 
out  any  idea  of  how  we  can  get  out  of  it." 


BLACKBERRY  ROMANCE       131 

"  If  this  sea  keeps  rising,"  I  retorted,  "  I  know 
blamed  well  how  we'll  get  out  of  it.  We'll  shin 
up  one  of  these  dinky  oaks  and  hang  on  for  a 
week — and  there  isn't  a  camp  or  a  human  being 
on  this  side  the  lake,  they  said ;  or  a  foot  of  safe 
land  till  we  hit  Bayou  La  Fourche." 

"  It's  fine  weather,"  murmured  Hen — "  for 
ducks." 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE  SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  L'OUESE 


WE  made  a  most  beautiful  camp  in  the 
oak  grove,  and  when  the  moon  drew 
up  above  the  dancing  waves  and 
struck  that  curve  of  shells,  and  we  had  supped 
on  coffee  and  blackberry  smash  spread  on  our 
hot  biscuits,  and  had  had  a  smoke,  lying  on  our 
blankets,  we  felt  fit  for  any  game.  We  were 
hungry  after  that  hard  day's  work,  and  still 
more  tired,  and  slept  like  tramps.  The  gale 
blew  all  the  next  day  and  we  could  see  nothing 
except  a  luggar  hauling  up  from  the  great  bay 
into  the  lakes  for  safety  behind  the  points.  We 
had  planned  to  start  at  dawn  along  the  west 
shore,  but  it  was  another  day  before  we  made  it. 
There  was  a  deal  of  trouble  packing  the 
pirogue.  We  had  two  duffles,  the  tent  roll,  a 

132 


SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  L'OURSE    133 

general  plunder  sack,  the  kitchen  kit  and  re 
flector  baker,  camera,  guns,  and  tackle,  besides 
our  blanket  rolls  and  bars,  and  to  batten  all  this 
down  below  the  coaming  of  the  thirteen-foot 
dugout  took  a  lot  of  compromising.  We  threw 
away  some  stuff,  but  kept  the  sail  poles  and  can 
vas  that  we  had  bought  with  the  pirogue.  Just 
what  use  we  would  make  of  them  was  uncertain, 
for  when  she  was  loaded  and  we  paddled  out  of 
the  cove,  there  were  not  two  inches  of  freeboard, 
and  we  had  to  sit  high  on  our  luggage  to  work 
her  along.  I  was  bow  stroke  and  Hen  was 
steering.  It  was  gingerish  picking  for  a  few 
miles,  as  the  seas  still  flung  up  along  the  marsh 
shore,  but  by  ten  o'clock  we  turned  into  a  broad 
bayou  which  we  concluded  was  Des  Amoureaux 
and  was  supposed  to  take  us  to  La  Fourche 
woods. 

We  drew  on  into  a  brilliant  prairie  covered 
with  yellow  and  white  and  purple  flowers,  out 
of  this  into  a  swampy  little  lake,  into  another 
bayou,  another  lake,  and  on  another  slow-mov 
ing  stream.  The  banks  of  the  whole  country 


134   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

were  barely  above  water,  and  it  was  five  o'clock 
when  we  neared  the  blue  wall  of  woods.  At 
sunset  we  were  paddling  through  the  big  cy 
press  with  here  and  there  a  cane  brake,  which 
made  it  hard  to  follow  the  channel.  The  chan 
nel,  in  fact,  began  to  shoal  off  into  mere  mud 
flats  of  lilies  and  scrub  palmettoes,  and  we 
looked  anxiously  for  a  camping  spot. 

It  had  been  a  fine  day's  paddling  and  the 
Bantayan  had  stood  up  nobly.  A  canvas  canoe 
would  have  been  ripped  to  pieces  by  the  needle- 
like  spikes  of  the  cypress  through  which  we 
shoved  the  pirogue  without  danger.  But  the 
prospect  of  spending  the  night  in  the  swamp 
was  not  pleasing.  The  gloom  of  the  forest 
brought  the  nightfall  quickly.  But  presently  a 
light  showed  under  the  heavy  festoons  of  the 
moss. 

Hen  gave  an  exultant  yell:  "  Land-Hoi 
And  I  smell  coffee!" 

We  drew  up  beside  a  palmetto  shack.  A 
Cajun  woman  came  around  the  mud- walled 
chimney  with  a  frightened  glance  at  us.  But 


SNAKES  OF  VAYOU  L'OURSE    135 

we  reassured  her  and  asked  the  way.  Her  hus 
band  was  a  hunter  of  wild  cattle  and  was  off 
in  the  lower  swamps.  She  said  it  was  three 
miles  to  Bayou  La  Fourche,  where  there  were 
plantations,  but  we  could  not  get  there  by  water. 
Des  Amoureaux  lost  itself  in  the  cypress  here 
about.  We  made  a  hasty  camp,  hanging  our 
bars  to  a  broken-down  wagon  tongue,  drank 
fresh  milk  with  our  cold  biscuit,  and  rolled  in. 
Crepelle,  the  cowboy,  was  home  for  breakfast, 
and  a  most  excellent  breakfast  he  asked  us  to — 
braised  duck,  rice  and  sour  cream,  and  bread. 
His  wife  was  a  Portuguese,  he  told  us.  We  had 
added  another  to  our  polyglot  collection  of  the 
nations  of  Barataria! 

As  Crepelle  was  sure  we  could  not  get 
through  the  swamp,  Hen  decided  to  go  out  with 
him  in  search  of  some  way  of  portaging  our 
dugout  to  La  Fourche.  His  father,  a  genial 
old  alligator  hunter,  came  to  camp  later.  He 
thought  we  might  follow  a  stream  that  led  to 
Bayou  L'Ourse  and  get  to  open  water  some 
miles  below.  The  Gulf  was  rising,  he  said,  and 


136   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

on  a  good  tide  the  big  woods  might  be  traversed. 
On  his  advice  we  waited  over  a  day,  anxiously 
measuring  the  black  water  as  it  crept  up  to  the 
rude  little  wharf  of  poles  in  front  of  the  palm 
hut. 

The  Crepelles  told  us  many  stories  of  alli 
gator  hunting  and  of  the  raids  against  the  wild 
cattle  of  the  swamps.  They  had  never  been  able 
to  reach  many  of  them  until  this  spring,  with  its 
unusually  high  tides,  had  let  the  water-cowboys 
into  their  haunts.  This  was  the  highest  land  we 
had  seen  since  leaving  the  Mississippi,  and  when 
a  wagon  and  ox  team  jogged  in  over  the  trail 
along  the  ridge  it  was  really  a  novelty  after 
wandering  in  the  wet  forests  and  sunken  lake 
shores  of  Barataria. 

The  elder  Crepelle  had  a  never-ceasing  child's 
wonder  at  our  stories  of  the  world  outside,  and 
at  our  patented  camp  paraphernalia.  He  was 
full  of  "Mon  Dieus"  and  "Eh-Hos"  and 
(f  Ho-ees"  and  comical  but  pathetic  apologies 
for  the  rudeness  of  their  living.  But  never  did 
we  meet  more  genuine  hospitality.  In  fact,  the 


a 

k> 


SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  UOURSE    137 

finest  memory  of  all  our  sojourns  is  the  unfail 
ing  courtesy  and  shy  but  eager  welcome  with 
which  the  swamp  Cajuns  met  us  everywhere. 

The  next  morning's  tide  had  risen  little.  Hen 
set  off  on  the  ox  trail  with  the  younger  man  to 
reach  the  plantation  country  and  bargain  for 
some  means  of  portage  to  Bayou  La  Fourche. 
I  slept  in  my  blankets  an  hour  longer  and  then, 
while  waiting  for  Crepelle's  breakfast,  conclud 
ed  to  take  the  pirogue  and  see  if  I  could  not 
really  shove  her  into  the  forest  and  explore  the 
waterway.  It  was  a  fool  idea.  I  paddled  on 
nicely  with  the  lightened  dugout  for  a  mile,  en 
tranced  by  the  morning  beauty  of  the  wet 
woods,  the  singing  birds  and  flowers.  When 
the  cypress  thinned  a  bit  I  discovered  that 
Bayou  L'Ourse  led  into  a  glade  of  sawgrass 
and  wild  hyacinth,  and  I  thought  I  saw  a  ridge 
of  higher  land  beyond.  I  congratulated  my 
self.  When  Hen  came  back  with  his  nigger 
cart  I  would  have  the  Bantayan  all  loaded  and 
ready  to  start  for  a  paddle  through  the  swamp. 

So  I  worked  on  through  the  grass  and  cane. 


138   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

The  sun  was  up  and  burning  hotly  down  on  the 
muddy  margins  of  the  bayou,  which  was  now 
hardly  more  than  a  shallow  ditch.  And  snakes ! 
I  began  to  see  them  lying  within  paddle  reach, 
lazy  and  lethargic,  big  black  moccasins,  cotton- 
mouths,  and  now  and  then  a  reddish  copper 
head.  As  I  dug  on  through  the  mud  I  mauled 
them  over  the  head,  killing  eight  in  as  many 
yards.  But  the  farther  I  went,  the  shoaler  grew 
the  water  and  the  hotter  the  sun.  The  gnats 
began  to  dance  over  the  evil-smelling  mud  and 
presently  I  felt  rather  sick.  I  glanced  ahead 
and  then  back.  Snakes  everywhere.  I  stood 
up  and  counted  twenty-nine. 

Then  I  realized  that  it  was  the  indescribable 
odor  from  this  snake  den  that  was  sickening  me ; 
that,  and  the  sun  and  the  three  hours'  labor 
without  breakfast.  I  concluded  to  turn  about, 
for  there  was  no  navigable  water  ahead.  But 
that  gave  me  no  end  of  difficulty.  I  couldn't 
drive  the  canoe  around  in  the  mud,  and  I  could 
not  step  out,  for  the  mire  was  bottomless  and 
the  three  and  six-foot  moccasins  were  every- 


SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  L'OURSE    139 

where.  Sick  and  hot,  I  worked  at  it  and  at  the 
end  of  an  hour  had  not  back-tracked  twenty 
yards,  when  I  heard  a  ff  Ho-ee! "  back  in  the 
cypress. 

Old  Man  Crepelle  was  standing  in  his  runnin* 
pirogue  staring  at  me.  "  Man,  wha'  yo'  goin'?  " 

"I  don't  know.     Some  snakes,  aren't  they?" 

"  Snakes !  Worse  hole  in  dis  swamp  f  o' 
snakes.  Dey  got  me  cowed !  Yo'  betteh  git  out 
a-deh!  Dose  big  ones  larrup  right  into  yo'  pi 
rogue  if  dey  gits  mad ! " 

I  larruped  another  one  over  the  head.  They 
were  too  somnolent  to  attack  one,  I  imagined, 
but  Crepelle  was  badly  frightened.  He  would 
not  budge  from  the  shade  of  the  cypress,  and 
I  had  to  work  back  alone,  with  the  old  swamper 
scolding  me  every  yard.  When  I  got  to  the 
timber  I  was  about  done  up.  Crepelle  let  out 
another  cry  of  dismay  when  he  discovered  I  had 
piled  three  of  the  biggest  snakes  into  my  pi 
rogue. 

"Mon  Dieu!  Skin  'em!  Dat's  bad  luck, 
M'sieu!  Don't  bring  dem  snakes  to  my  camp! " 


140    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

And  when  I  approached  he  sat  hastily  down 
and  paddled  on  ahead.  His  light  shell  went 
over  flats  that  our  heavy  canoe  would  not  take, 
and  when  I  reached  his  camp  his  voice  came 
excitedly  as  he  told  Hen:  "  Yo'  partner,  he 
out  deh  bringin'  in  a  load  o'  snakes!  Dey  sho' 
got  me  cowed!" 

I  was  too  sick  to  skin  my  snakes  when  I  got 
back.  Anyway,  Hen  had  a  nigger  cart  waiting 
and  we  lifted  the  Bantayan  into  it,  piled  the 
camp  stuff  on,  and  set  out.  Mid-afternoon  we 
came  out  of  La  Fourche  woods  into  the  narrow 
strip  of  cultivable  land  fronting  the  bayou.  It 
was  green  with  young  sugar  cane.  Down  the 
long  rows  a  line  of  darkies,  men  and  women  and 
children,  hoed  the  black  earth,  while  the  mount 
ed  overseer  rode  behind  and  jacked  up  the  lag 
gards.  He  was  very  courteous,  but  mystified 
at  us  appearing  from  the  swamp,  refused  any 
compensation  for  the  mule  cart,  and  told  the 
hands  to  see  us  off  safely  on  Bayou  La  Fourche. 
We  paddled  on  in  a  stiff  headwind  until  dark, 
and  made  camp  on  the  ancient  levee.  We  could 


SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  UOURSE    Ul 

see  nothing  but  the  greensward,  with  a  cow 
grazing  here  and  there,  and  it  was  a  pleasing 
surprise  to  climb  the  levee  and  look  down  on  a 
smiling  country  of  small  farms  stretching  to  the 
swamp  woods  three  miles  away  on  either  side. 

The  people  were  all  Creoles,  truck-raisers  and 
storekeepers,  while  along  the  slow-moving  bayou 
came  red-sailed  luggars,  the  Italian  crews  pol 
ing  them  against  the  failing  breeze.  It  was  an 
interesting  country.  We  made  Lockport  the 
next  morning,  dined  at  the  hotel,  got  directions 
as  to  how  to  reach  Bayou  Terrebonne,  and  set 
off  down  a  weedy  canal  southward.  But  it  came 
on  to  rain  before  the  first  mile,  and  when  we 
saw  a  large,  dirty  tent  on  the  bank  by  a  lumber 
pile  we  went  ashore.  There  were  two  men  in 
side,  sitting  by  a  smoky  stove,  and  at  first  glance 
we  knew  they  were  "  Yankees." 

They  were  from  Kalamazoo,  and  they  were 
trying  to  reclaim  three  thousand  acres  of  wet 
land  along  Field  Lake.  As  it  blew  and  rained 
harder,  we  accepted  their  invitation  to  make 
camp  with  them.  They  helped  us  put  up  our 


142    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

little  silk  tent,  and  we  all  dined  on  fried  trout, 
tea,  and  macaroni.  Our  hosts  were  wet  but 
hopeful.  They  were  waiting  for  the  cattle  which 
they  were  going  to  run  on  their  holdings  to  kill 
the  "  piene  grass  "  for  a  year  or  two,  until  they 
began  cultivation.  Several  other  Northerners 
had  settled  about,  and  the  company  was  work 
ing  to  drain  the  small  lakes  to  make  available 
the  land  beyond  "the  forty-arpent  line,"  the 
historic  demarkation  beyond  which  the  Cajun 
farmers  would  not  venture. 

However,  Yankee  capital  was  doing  wonders 
on  the  black,  rich  swamp  soil.  The  gentlemen 
took  us  in  a  launch  the  next  day  to  show  us  how 
their  pumping  plant  worked  to  drain  the  low 
lands.  It  would  remove  the  rainfall  at  the  rate 
of  two  million  gallons  an  hour  from  the  main 
ditch.  Into  this  the  field  laterals  led  the  water, 
and  we  were  told  that  the  pump  would  drain  off 
a  four-inch  rain  in  twenty-four  hours  and  leave 
the  prairie  dry  enough  to  plow  the  next  day. 
Anyhow,  the  contrast  of  this  black  humus  with 
adjoining  areas  of  wild  cane,  infested  with  alli 
gators  and  snakes,  was  refreshing. 


SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  L'OURSE    143 

The  newcomers  had  great  hopes  of  pepper 
mint  as  a  crop.  Potatoes,  corn,  onions,  toma 
toes — all  were  flourishing  fabulously  on  the 
Raceland  prairies.  But  the  April  rainfall  was 
something  big.  It  fell  upon  Hen  and  me  that 
night  in  our  tent,  the  wind  howled  and  snatched 
at  the  silk,  and  by  midnight  we  were  lying  in  a 
pool  of  water.  But  we  refused  to  be  routed  out, 
although  dawn  came  on  us  soaked  and  sleepy. 
We  breakfasted  and  dried  out  our  camp.  But, 
glory  be  to  the  duffles  and  piffles!  Not  a  drop 
had  gone  through  the  paraffin  bags  to  our  grub. 

We  paddled  on  the  next  day — a  most  beau 
tiful  one — through  Field  and  Long  lakes,  then 
up  Bayou  Terrebonne,  through  another  minia 
ture  farming  country  of  the  Creoles,  and  came 
to  the  little  French  town  of  Houma  at  night. 
Next  day  was  Easter,  and  we  idled  in  the  plaza 
and  watched  the  churchgoing  folk.  It  was  all 
clean  and  sweet  and  sunny  after  the  swamps 
and  snakes  of  La  Fourche.  Round  about  were 
sugar  plantations,  and  motor  cars  rolled  out  the 
white  shell  roads  to  the  great  houses.  We  liked 
Houma  immensely.  Little  boys  came  to  our 


144    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

camp,  all  quiet,  respectful  little  chaps,  who  an 
swered  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  "  No,  sir,"  and  volun 
teered  to  carry  water.  They  had  never  seen  a 
tent  and  thought  we  must  have  a  "  show."  We 
had  got  quite  used  to  that  by  now.  All  down 
Terrebonne  the  darky  women  came  to  the  bank 
to  ask  if  we  were  selling  anything,  and  neither 
white  nor  colored  could  make  out  that  two  men 
would  paddle  that  dugout  around  just  for 
"  pleasure." 

We  had  a  call  from  the  sheriff  of  the  parish 
next  day.  He  just  dropped  in  "  to  see  what 
we  were  about,"  he  explained.  The  big  planta 
tion  owners  had  no  liking  for  strange  white  men 
to  be  about  their  negroes.  The  sheriff  said  that 
employment  agents  were  forever  trying  to  lure 
hands  off  the  plantation  to  work  in  the  lumber 
camps  and  towns,  and  itinerant  peddlers  swin 
dled  the  negroes,  getting  good  money  that,  of 
course,  by  all  that  was  just  and  holy,  the  plan 
tation  stores  ought  to  get.  But  when  the  Terre 
bonne  planters  could  once  understand  that  we 
desired  no  further  business  with  the  hands  than 


J    ^ 


'S 


SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  L'OURSE    145 

to  photograph  them  they  were  very  hospitable. 

Our  Easter  dinner  was  a  big  mulligan  of 
steak  and  vegetables,  rice  and  blackberry  jam, 
for  the  blackberries  literally  enrobed  Terrebonne 
on  both  banks  for  miles.  And  the  storekeeper 
where  we  made  a  few  purchases  sent  us  a  fine 
banana  cake,  and  another  man  sent  us  oysters. 
vWe  couldn't  help  liking  Houma. 

Houma  was  a  great  oyster-packing  point. 
The  streets  and  roads  were  all  white  shelled; 
and  one  oyster  house  had  a  pile  of  these  in  its 
yard  estimated  to  be  worth  two  thousand  dol 
lars.  The  oysters  came  up  the  bayous  from 
Grand  Caillou,  Tambalier,  and  all  the  south 
coast  reefs,  the  red-shirted  luggarmen  lending 
an  ever-picturesque  color  to  the  green-banked 
bayou.  We  regretted  to  leave  Houma.  Not 
that  we  knew  yet  where  we  were  going.  Not  a 
word  from  that  canoe.  Hen  yawned  when  I 
mentioned  it.  He  gaped  wider  when  I  remind 
ed  him  of  his  digestion  and  the  Fountain  of 
Ponce  de  Leon. 

"Oh,  yes — that  old  party!    He  made  a  mis- 


146     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

take  in  going  to  Florida.  He  should  have  come 
to  Terrebonne  and  had  the  natives  feed  him 
banana  cake." 

"  If  we're  going  to  Florida  in  the  Bantayan" 
I  answered,  "  or  Yucatan,  or  wherever  it  is,  we 
ought  to  turn  around.  It's  about  twenty-four 
thousand  five  hundred  miles  in  the  direction  we 
are  paddling,  and  my  hands  are  a  bit  blistered." 

"  Suppose  it  is  twenty- four  thousand?  We're 
in  no  hurry.  Let's  wander  on  to  the  Atcha- 
falaya  country  and  see  that  oak  under  which 
Evangeline  sat  and  waited  for  her  Gabriel." 

"  Girls?  "  I  said.  "  Thought  you  came  down 
here  to  forget  girls  and  table  d'hotes  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing? " 

"  Yes,"  he  murmured,  flicking  a  fly  off  his 
ear.  "  But  I  want  to  see  that  oak.  I  want  to 
know  how  Evangeline  could  sit  under  a  Louisi 
ana  oak  without  the  red  bugs  getting  her.  And 
if  they  had,  there  wouldn't  have  been  any  poem. 
No  one  can  sigh  for  love  with  the  red  bugs  on 
'em.  You  can't  mix  girls  and  red  bugs  and  then 
expect  any  poetry  out  of  the  combination — no, 
sir!" 


SNAKES  OF  BAYOU  L'OURSE    147 

So  we  went  on  lazily.  Hen's  automatic  rifle 
was  getting  rusted  and  his  scientific  fishing  kit 
was  unopened.  He  didn't  seem  to  care.  He  had 
no  interest  in  his  stomach  any  more.  Or  his  hair. 
He  was  getting  almighty  lazy.  The  way  we 
slept  nights  in  that  silk  tent  was  a  caution.  It 
was  the  hardest  sort  of  work  to  be  under  way 
in  the  Bantayan  before  nine  in  the  morning. 
And  at  eleven  o'clock  Hen  invariably  proposed 
we  go  ashore  and  eat  something.  But  we  man 
aged  to  paddle  on  into  Bayou  Black,  past  some 
very  fine  plantations,  into  a  region  of  tiny  farms 
between  the  bayou  and  the  blue  wall  of  the 
swamp  forest  which  was  always  in  sight  beyond. 
One  morning  we  awoke  to  discover  three  dark- 
eyed  children  gazing  at  us. 

"Bon  jour!39  they  hailed  us  smilingly,  and 
then  disappeared  to  come  back  with  hot  rolls  and 
some  dry  kindling,  having  watched  our  efforts 
to  start  breakfast  with  wet  sticks. 

Then  they  sat  about  us,  smiling  silently.  We 
had  bought  a  new  and  small  coffee  "  dripper " 
some  time  back  and  now  the  Bodin  children  pro 
ceeded  to  show  Hen  how  to  make  real  "  Cajun  " 


148    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

coffee.  Hen  sat  patiently  through  breakfast 
while  our  small  hosts  pressed  the  black  pow 
dered  coffee  in  the  "  drip  "  and  slowly,  drop  by 
drop,  added  the  water. 

"  Now,  when  do  I  get  my  coffee?  "  demanded 
Hen,  time  and  again. 

"  Oh,  M'sieu,  afterwards! "  Robert  assured 
him.  And  from  that  time  on,  coffee  via  the  slow 
drip  methods  of  the  Cajun  pot  was  "  afterwards 
coffee  "  with  us — we  never  could  get  it  concocted 
in  time  for  breakfast. 

Three  colored  lumbermen  also  stopped  in  to 
find  amusement  over  our  breakfast  efforts.  The 
Bodin  children  explained  that  they  were  not  in 
school  because  the  "  Yankee  "  schoolma'am  had 
resigned.  She  could  not  find  table  board  to  suit 
her,  demanding  canned  peas  and  baker's  bread 
and  wanting  her  room  calcimined.  The  bayou 
people  couldn't  understand  this,  so  she  quit  and 
there  was  no  school. 

The  three  swampers  "  sorteh  lazed  round  all 
day,"  as  they  put  it,  watching  us  dry  out  our 
stuff  from  the  night's  rain.  When  we  lit  our 
pipes  and  strolled  over  to  talk  to  them  one  said : 


SNAKES  ON  BAYOU  UOURSE    149 

"  Do  Ah  onde'stand  you-all  a-paddlin'  that  li'l 
boat  round  fo'  pleasuah? " 

"Yes." 

"Pleasuah?" 

"Yes.    Pleasure." 

He  looked  at  us  and  then  broke  into  soft,  in 
ward  regurgitations  of  laughter.  "Pleasuah! 
Some  folks  is  got  some  quee'  ideas  o'  pleasuah  I 
Ah'd  rather  done  go  to  N'Awlyins  and  see'  a 
pictu'  show." 

None  of  the  people  here  had  ever  seen  a 
camper  or  heard  of  anybody  traveling  through 
the  bayous  on  "  pleasure."  The  Bodin  children 
had  never  seen  a  tent;  they  examined  and  dis 
cussed  ours  with  curiosity. 

But  never  such  kindly,  lively,  and  wideawake 
youngsters.  Alcide  and  Antoinette  said  they 
would  bring  us  some  milk,  but  at  supper  time 
came  back  mournfully  abashed  to  relate  that 
there  was  no  milk.  The  cows  had  refused  to 
come  out  of  the  deep  swamp  back  of  the  fields, 
and  when  the  cows  wouldn't  come  home  no  one 
could  make  them.  We  all  went  blackberrying 
the  next  day  in  the  swamp  edge,  and  the  dis- 


150    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

graced  cows  booed  from  the  cypress  woods,  but 
still  refused  to  come  out. 

It  was  on  Bayou  Black,  in  our  Arcadian  leis 
ure  there,  that  Hen  had  his  celebrated  case  of 
the  Nigger  from  Grand  Caillou.  I  have  told  of 
our  hypodermic  syringe  and  stuff  for  snake  bite. 
Hen  was  ever  aggrieved  at  me  because  I  refused 
to  get  snake-bitten  and  let  him  practice  on  me. 
The  Nigger  from  Grand  Caillou  was  hanging 
around  camp  one  day  and  heard  our  never-end 
ing  discussion  of  the  hypo  cure  for  snake  bite. 
Now,  that  nigger  needed  f  o'  bits.  He  needed  f  o' 
bits  the  worst  way.  So,  happy  thought — Hen 
offered  him  fo'  bits  if  he  would  get  snake  bit 
and  let  Hen  practice.  The  nigger  said  he  'lowed 
he  would.  Fo'  bits  is  a  lot  of  money. 

So  the  Nigger  from  Grand  Caillou  went  off 
in  the  swamp  and  came  back  snake-bit.  He 
showed  the  hole.  It  was  a  round  sort  of  hole  in 
the  nigger,  right  on  his  forearm,  and  it  had  some 
blood.  "Excellent!"  said  Hen,  and  proceeded 
to  pump  the  nigger  full  of  dope.  The  nigger's 
eyes  stuck  out,  but  he  said  he  didn't  mind  if  he 


SNAKES  ON  BAYOU  L'OUKSE    151 

got  the  fo'  bits.  Well,  after  the  operation  Hen 
gave  the  nigger  his  fo'  bits.  Then  we  sat  around 
waiting  for  something  to  happen  to  the  nigger. 
Nothing  happened.  We  gave  the  nigger  his 
supper  and  Hen  told  him  to  report  in  the  morn 
ing.  He  did  so — before  breakfast.  He  reported 
for  dinner,  he  reported  for  supper.  He  hung 
around  all  the  time  we  camped  at  Bodin's  with 
Hen  anxiously  inspecting  the  hole  and  examin 
ing  the  nigger. 

Hen  was  hurt  because  the  nigger  showed  no 
symptoms  of  any  sort.  He  neither  would  die 
nor  would  he  get  any  better.  He  just  hung 
around  and  had  a  whale  of  an  appetite.  I  grew 
suspicious  about  that  snake.  Hen  had  asked  him 
if  it  was  a  moccasin  or  a  copperhead,  and  the 
nigger  assured  him  that  it  was  one  of  the  worst 
snakes  for  niggers  ever  seen  in  these  parts.  The 
nigger  stayed  to  supper  and  breakfast  again  and 
borrowed  Hen's  pants  to  go  to  a  "  ball "  over 
near  Mawgan  City.  Hen  laid  a  strict  injunc 
tion  on  him  to  report  next  day.  The  nigger  did 
— before  breakfast.  He  was  a  woebegone  nig- 


152    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

ger  now.  He  had  become  infamous  overnight. 
The  story  had  spread  of  how  the  Yankee  doctor 
had  used  him  for  experimental  purposes. 

"  Boss,  I  done  come  back  hyah  to  ax  yo'  to 
tak  dat  stuff  outen  mah  system,"  he  said.  "  All 
dem  fool  niggehs  at  de  ball  dey  wouldn't  have 
nuffin  to  do  wid  me.  Dey  said  Ah  was  changin' 
coloh  lak  Ah  was  purple  now.  Gin  don'  seem 
to  make  me  feel  drunk  now,  an'  mah  girl  she 
won't  have  nuffin  to  do  wid  me.  I  hatter  sit 
round  dat  ball  all  alone  jes  lak  a  poisoned 
pup!" 

Hen  couldn't  take  the  stuff  outen  his  system. 
He  was  aggrieved  that  nothing  outwardly  hap 
pened  to  the  nigger.  As  for  myself,  I  was  cyn 
ically  minded  as  to  the  snake.  But  when  we 
paddled  away  from  Bayou  Black  the  Nigger 
from  Grand  Caillou  still  sat  on  the  bank,  gazing 
sorrowfully  after  us.  He  was  the  poisoned  pup. 
We  had  totally  ruined  his  social  position. 


Thankful  to'  camp  on  the  roots  of  a  sunken  cypress. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

{THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP 

WE  paddled  on  from  this  bit  of  Arcady 
with  regret.     Alcide,  'Toinnette,  and 
Robert  came  down  from  the  planta 
tion-house  to  bid  us  adieu — and  bring  us  an 
enormous  bullfrog  which  the  boys  had  captured. 
We  had  told  them  of  our  desire  to  eat  of  the 
fried  and  famous  bullfrogs  of  the  bayou  region. 
He  was  a  whopper — big  as  a  chicken,  and  when 
we  cooked  him  just  as  one  would  a  broiler  he 
was  great  and  enough  for  a  family. 

I  took  a  farewell  sail  with  the  big  red  lateen 
which  we  had  brought  along  with  the  Bantayan 
and  never  used,  as  we  dared  not  risk  it  with  all 
our  fancy  camera  stuff  on  board.  But  this 
morning  I  was  skimming  up  Bayou  Black  while 
Hen  perched  on  a  stump  to  snapshot  the  pirogue 

153 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

as  she  flew  by.  It  was  a  squally  day,  and  just 
as  I  came  past  the  plantation-house,  leaning  the 
ticklish  craft  over  so  that  Hen  would  have  a 
picture  with  "  some  action,"  as  he  demanded,  a 
puff  of  wind  hit  me  off  the  bank.  Over  we  went, 
green  pirogue,  red  sail — all  upside  down,  amid 
shrieks  of  laughter  from  our  delighted  Creole 
friends.  As  I  was  then  traveling  with  but  one 
pair  of  trousers,  Robert  dashed  to  the  house  and 
made  me  a  loan,  for  the  day  was  cool.  I  felt 
it  by  the  time  I  was  fished  out. 

That  day's  trip  took  us  quite  out  of  the  farm 
country.  The  bayou  grew  more  wild  and  beau 
tiful,  the  banks  lower,  and  the  oaks  and  pecans 
gave  way  to  the  gray  cypress  jungle  and  the 
latanier  palms.  We  met  no  one  on  the  last 
miles  except  a  few  negro  tie-cutters  standing  up 
"  row-pushing "  their  square-end  skiffs,  chant 
ing  lugubriously  with  the  stroke.  The  men  pole 
the  ties  out  of  the  deep  swamp  along  narrow 
water  aisles,  fifty  to  a  hundred  in  a  string,  wet 
to  the  skin  day-long,  hardly  seeing  the  sun  until 
they  have  towed  the  ties  to  the  bayou  side. 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    155 

There  they  are  loaded  on  barges  and  sent  on 
to  "  Mawgan  City." 

We  pushed  on  through  Bayou  Chien  with  a 
strong  tide  bearing  us  seaward  between  the 
semi-tropic  banks.  The  tangle  of  palmettoes, 
grape-vines,  willows,  and  cypress,  together  with 
the  masses  of  wild  hyacinths  floating  along  the 
shores,  made  a  landing  difficult  anywhere.  Then 
we  would  come  to  a  bit  of  real  land  where  the 
oaks  and  greensward  made  the  country  look  like 
a  great  park,  and  then  plunge  on  in  the  forest. 
The  bayou  gradually  widened  and  once  again 
came  plantations,  the  colored  hands  in  the  fields 
and  the  white  quarters  showing  over  the  young 
cane.  We  reached  Morgan  City  at  nightfall 
and  made  a  pleasant  camp  under  the  oaks. 
Bayou  Chien  here  flowed  into  the  mighty  Atcha- 
falaya,  which,  in  turn,  thirty  miles  below,  pours 
into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  We  looked  out  on 
that  swift,  yellow  flood,  bearing  the  drift  and 
debris  of  the  bankful  Mississippi  with  some 
doubts — we  would  have  to  cross  it  and  go  some 
miles  up  to  reach  the  Teche  country. 


156     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

My  remembrance  of  Morgan  City  is  that  a 
pest  of  Argentine  ants  invaded  camp,  that  we 
dickered  for  two  chickens  for  fifteen  cents  each, 
and  then  discovered  we  had  ten  cents  left,  with 
no  apparent  chance  of  cashing  a  check  in  this 
town  of  strangers.  Hen's  solicitude  for  those 
chickens  was  touching.  He  crawled  out  of  bed 
all  hours  of  the  night  to  see  if  they  were  still 
roosting  on  the  rail  fence  by  the  tent  where 
they  had  been  tied. 

He  mumbled  about  colored  citizens  and  preda 
tory  'possums  in  his  sleep,  and  was  out  with  a 
"Hooray!"  at  daybreak  when  one  of  the 
youngsters  crowed.  Sunday,  and  wash-day. 
Sour-dough  cakes  and  coffee  for  breakfast;  but 
for  dinner — oh,  you  Mawgan  City  chickens! 
One  apiece.  We  went  without  lunch  in  order 
to  be  equal  to  them. 

Pushboats  and  johnboats  went  past  us  all 
morning,  filled  with  colored  folk  on  the  way  to 
church.  Some  landed  near  us  to  make  their  way 
through  the  leafy  woods  to  town.  The  women 
had  on  bright  headkerchiefs,  and  the  men  were 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP     157 

very  solemn  in  black  Sunday  garb.  When  I 
came  back  from  swimming  I  discovered  Hen, 
as  usual,  had  got  into  a  vast  argument  with  the 
natives. 

One  old  grizzled-chop  darky  was  asking, 
"Ain't  you-all  tellin'  fawtchunes  like  dem  old 
Egypt  folkses  used  to  do?" 

"  Get  out !  "  said  Hen.  "  What  makes  every 
body  think  that?" 

The  venerable  brother  shook  his  head.  "  Only 
one  eve'  fitten  to  tell  fawtchunes  wor  Moses, 
hisself." 

Hen  was  inclined  to  dispute  the  Mosaic 
legend,  and  at  once  he  was  in  for  it.  The  old 
darky  laid  down  his  cane  and  book,  wiped  his 
brow,  and  proceeded  to  expound.  They  had  it 
hot  and  heavy,  and  our  guest  wound  up: 

"  Man,  you  try  done  tell  me  Moses  got  his 
learnin'  f'um  dem  Egyptologers?  Well,  wha' 
dem  Egyptologers  git  it  f'um?" 

"  From  the  Phoenicians." 

"F'um  dem  Phoenicians?  Well,  wha'  dem 
Phoenicians  git  it  f'um?" 


158     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

"  From  tradition." 

"Well,  wha'  dem  Traditioners  git  it  fum?" 

Hen  paused,  stumped  at  last.  And  his  tri 
umphant  interlocutor  picked  up  his  cane  with 
a  flourish:  "Yas-seh!  Wha'  dem  Tradition 
ers  git  it  fum?" 

And  off  he  went,  leaving  Hen  clear  flabber 
gasted,  sure  enough. 

After  the  demise  of  the  chickens  we  spent  a 
pleasant  evening  speculating  on  the  sorts  of 
bugs  crawling  over  us  now  and  then.  Hen 
would  lay  down  one  of  our  nickels  and  I  would 
lay  down  the  other  and  the  pool  would  go  to 
the  man  guessing  right  on  the  next  sort  of  bug 
down  his  neck — redbug,  ant,  mosquito,  or  some 
of  the  many  amateur  bugs  which  we  couldn't 
classify. 

We  got  away  a  fine  sunny  morning  up  the 
Atchafalaya,  much  pleased  that  through  the 
courtesy  of  the  postmaster  of  Morgan  City 
Hen  had  his  check  cashed.  We  made  an  extra 
careful  pack  of  the  duffle  bags,  cameras,  and 
guns  for  the  venture  across  the  big  river.  Many 
were  the  comments  of  the  idlers  along  Morgan 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    159 

City's  wharves  when  the  Bantayan  poked  her 
nose  cautiously  off  in  the  swift  flood. 

"  It's  all  right  to  be  bold,  but  not  too  bold, 
seh!"  one  skipper  assured  us.  "  Ah'd  as  soon 
start  up  riveh  in  a  pocket-handkerchief  as  yore 
boat!" 

We  had  a  fight  to  climb  up  under  the  arches 
of  the  railroad  bridge  and  then,  sitting  each 
a-straddle  of  a  heap  of  luggage,  for  the  Ban 
tayan  was  so  weighted  with  her  pack  that  the 
thwarts  were  invisible  and  she  showed  barely 
two  inches'  freeboard  along  her  sides,  we  dug 
the  paddles  into  the  Atchafalaya  and  passed  on. 
After  a  mile  of  hard,  slow  work,  dodging  the 
perils  of  floating  logs  and  lily  masses,  we  en 
countered  a  swell  sweeping  from  a  sea-going 
tug  that  gave  us  a  bad  scare.  Hen  was  steering 
and  he  brought  the  tiny  pirogue  around  in  time 
to  meet  the  rushing  wave  so  that  we  split  it  and 
the  succeeding  ones  fairly  and  shipped  little 
water.  I  ceased  paddling  entirely  and  balanced 
my  paddle  in  the  air,  so  ticklishly  did  the  thir- 
teen-footer  roll  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"  Curtains,"  murmured  Hen,  looking  at  the 


160     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

far  shores.  But  the  Bantayan  stood  the  seas 
splendidly.  We  got  out  of  the  mad  rush  of 
water  past  the  point  and  into  the  easy  reaches 
of  Bayou  Teche  by  mid-afternoon,  landed, 
bailed  the  water  out,  lunched  on  a  can  of  beans, 
and  paddled  on  into  this  most  beautiful  country 
of  all  Louisiana.  But  in  the  days  following  we 
tired  of  civilization  and  wanted  to  get  back  to 
our  wilderness.  The  Teche,  the  historic  home 
of  the  early  Creole  sugar-growing  aristocracy, 
was  one  succession  of  great  estates,  noble-pil 
lared  houses,  sugar-stacks,  and  darky  gangs 
afield,  with  her  and  there  a  lumber  mill  in  one 
of  the  prosperous  little  towns  we  passed. 

The  bayou  became  more  winding  and  pictur 
esque  above  Franklin.  There  wras  little  navi 
gation,  and  the  stream  seemed  a  show  river  run 
ning  through  a  show-country,  parked,  scrubbed, 
ribboned  with  green,  and  set  with  stately  oaks 
and  hedges.  It  narrowed,  too,  so  that  one  got 
the  most  intimate  and  personal  glimpses,  sylvan 
towns,  distant  spires,  and  white  roadways ;  while 
now  and  then  we  rounded  a  clump  to  find  our- 


Now  and  then  we  dragged  the  pirogue  from  pool  to  pool. 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    161 

selves  almost  in  the  tub,  as  it  were,  of  a  group 
of  black,  clean-turbaned  mammies  doing  the 
family  wash.  On  almost  every  plantation  we 
were  stopped  by  a  tiny  foot-bridge  across  the 
placid  bayou,  and  some  ancient  of  years  would 
hobble  down  from  the  "  sto' "  to  open  it,  collect 
a  nickel,  and  hobble  back  to  his  gallery. 

Opposite  Charenton  we  encamped  upon  the 
estate  of  Monsieur  Vigoreaux,  threw  our  blan 
kets  about  the  great  roots  of  a  fantastic  oak 
jutting  over  the  water,  and  slept,  tired  from  a 
fourteen  hours'  continuous  paddling.  The  next 
day  disclosed  the  same  tranquil  beauty  of  land 
and  bayous,  although  we  did  not  see  so  many 
imposing  plantations  and  stately  houses  of  the 
old  regime  as  below  Charenton  and  Irish  Bend. 
There  were  more  rice  fields  than  cane  and  more 
lumber  mills,  and  the  traffic  on  the  stream  was 
much  less  as  it  narrowed.  New  Iberia  was  a 
well-kept  and  pretty  spot  under  its  Southern 
oak,  and  now,  for  the  first  time  in  almost  two 
months,  we  decided  to  sleep  under  a  roof  and 
stored  our  camp  outfit  on  the  deck  of  a  gasoline 


162     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

boat  at  the  bridge  dock.  And  I  cannot  quite 
analyze  the  intolerable  feeling  that  came  over 
me  lying  in  that  stuffy  hotel-room. 

I  was  at  once  unhappy  and  restless;  indeed, 
beautiful  as  the  Teche  trip  was,  Hen  and  I 
were  already  getting  grouched  wherever  civiliz 
ation  touched  us.  We  wanted  our  wilderness. 
The  Fountain  lay  not  here  nor  there  among 
these  smiling  towns  and  ordered  country-sides. 
We  wandered  about  New  Iberia,  the  subject  of 
some  comment,  overhearing  one  lady  in  a  store 
remark :  "  Those  two  men  are  '  sailing  around 
the  world  in  a  pirogue! " 

And  a  very  earnest  small  boy  came  up  to  me 
on  the  street  as  I  sauntered  along  and  asked: 
"  Suh,  are  you  a  Cubian? " 

I  looked  the  part,  perhaps.  I  hadn't  shaved 
since  we  dropped  into  the  Barataria  woods,  and 
only  now  had  had  the  beard  trimmed  into  a 
nifty  Van  Dyke  that  made  Hen  envious.  And 
that,  with  a  Mexican  hat  and  the  sunburn,  made 
up  the  part.  We  were  badly  off  for  clothes 
as  soon  as  we  struck  a  town,  for  neither  had  a 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    163 

coat,  and  the  exigencies  of  pirogue  traveling 
had  stripped  our  wardrobe  to  the  barest  essen 
tials.  All  along  we  had  been  solving  the  ques 
tion  of  making  that  thirteen-foot  dugout  sea 
worthy  by  chucking  overboard  every  last  ounce 
that  could  be  spared.  And  while  we  idled  and 
discussed  the  next  move  we  got  some  decisive 
news.  Among  the  letters  forwarded  was  one 
from  the  steamship  company  that  had  shipped 
our  famous  sea-going  canoe  from  New  York. 
It  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  Atlantic!  The 
canoe,  not  the  company.  It  seemed  that  the 
carrier-steamer  had  collided  with  another  some 
where  off  Hatteras  and  gone  to  the  bottom  with 
its  entire  cargo.  The  agent  regretted  it  exceed 
ingly! 

"Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  yelled 
Hen.  "  Florida  and  the  Fountain !  Here  we 
are  in  Louisiana  headed  exactly  off  in  the  wrong 
direction,  and  our  canoe  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea!" 

We  stared  at  one  another.  "Florida  be 
hanged ! "  I  said.  "  This  is  better  forty  ways 


164     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

for  Sunday.  Florida  is  smeared  from  St.  Au 
gustine  to  Key  West  with  tourists  and  hotel 
grubbers.  Down  here  we  don't  run  into  one. 
Florida  is  screamed  at  you  from  every  railroad 
folder  and  advertising  agency.  The  Teche 
country  is  innocent  of  either.  More  beautiful — 
more  romantic — untouched,  unspoiled — Arca 
dian  in  its " 

"  Who's  the  girl? "  said  Hen.  "  That  rangy 
looker  in  the  P.  O.  window?" 

"Go  to!  There  ain't  no  girl.  It's  the  cli 
mate.  And  the  spring.  And  the  two  hundred 
miles'  paddling  we've  done.  And  the — well, 
the  grub,  and  the  appetite,  and  chaps  like  Capau, 
the  dreamy-eyed  old  swamper,  whose  stories 
we've  been  listening  to  every  night  down  on  the 
bayou  bank.  I  feel  fine  and  fit.  Let's  drift  off 
into  the  Grand  Lake  country  where  Capau  says 
the  natives  are  who  hunt  with  blowguns — actu 
ally!  In  this  twentieth-century  America!  And 
see  the  Evangeline  oak " 

But  there  I  rubbed  Hen  the  wrong  way.  He 
was  touchy  about  Evangeline.  Every  town  we 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP     165 

had  struck  from  Houma  to  the  upper  Teche  had 
claimed  Evangeline.  That  maid  must  have 
spent  months  about  the  Atchafalaya  lakes,  get 
ting  all  sorts  of  trees  and  dells  and  bends  of  the 
bayou  named  after  her.  Not  a  Cajun  but  what 
would  grow  wide-eyed  if  you  asked  of  Long 
fellow's  afflicted  lady.  Once  a  schoolmaster 
over  at  Grand  Cane  had  written  a  play  about 
Evangeline  and  her  oak,  so  Capau  told  us.  He 
saw  it  with  his  own  eyes,  and  it  had  four  acts 
and  was  as  large  as  your  hat.  The  hotel  man 
also  saw  it,  and  the  saloon  man  at  the  bridge. 
It  was  a  fine  play,  but  the  barkeeper  said  it 
wasn't  as  large  a  play  as  Capau  insisted.  He 
said  there  was  no  more  than  a  good  double  hand 
ful  of  paper  altogether,  and  he  wasn't  certain 
whether  that  was  enough  for  a  good  play. 

Then  there  was  an  argument  over  the  bar  in 
the  midst  of  which  a  sad-eyed  bum  who  had 
sidled  in  to  mooch  us  for  a  beer  suddenly  amazed 
me  by  taking  part  and  quoting  Polonius's  speech 
of  admonition  to  players  in  general — "  Speak 
the  speech,  I  pray  you,"  etc. 


166    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

He  was  a  panhandler  who  had  come  in  over 
the  Espee  and  admitted  he  had  "  done  time  " 
in  eastern  Texas,  but  he  new  more  of  literature 
than  Hen  and  I  and  the  barkeeper  and  Capau, 
the  swamper,  rolled  in  one.  But  we  parted  from 
our  courteous  friends  of  the  Teche  the  next 
morning  and  started  to  find  a  way  across  to  the 
lake  country  north  of  here.  We  paddled  all  day 
and  until  ten  that  night,  made  a  shift  of  a  camp 
in  the  dark,  and  started  a  tiny  fire  for  coffee. 
And  that  night,  as  we  prepared  for  bed,  a  most 
startling  thing  happened.  I  saw  the  blaze  of  a 
light  in  the  dark,  the  report  of  a  rifle  came,  and 
over  our  heads  in  the  treetops  a  bullet  sang. 

We  stared  for  a  moment  and  then  retreated 
from  the  circle  of  the  firelight,  I  seizing  my  re 
volver  on  the  way.  Then  we  waited  many  min 
utes.  Nothing  moved  in  the  still  country  mid 
night.  We  went  back  to  our  blankets  later, 
cautiously  discussing  the  matter.  I  awoke  the 
next  morning  to  stare  up  into  the  gray-green 
mist  of  a  moss-hung  oak  with  beyond  it  a  beau 
tiful  dawn.  I  heard  a  stir  in  the  grass  back  of 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    167 

my  head  and  turned  to  discover  a  tall  colored 
man  in  a  faded,  striped  convict  suit  looking 
down  interestedly.  He  carried  a  hoe  and  a  can 
of  seeds,  and  when  he  saw  I  was  awake  he  re 
moved  his  hat  and  said: 

"  'Xcuse  me,  boss,  but  I  gotter  plant  dem 
wattermillions  hyah!" 

We  sat  up  to  look  as  interestedly  at  him. 
Across  the  bayou  we  now  saw  the  white  sheds 
and  fences  of  a  State  convict  farm.  The  same 
thought  shot  across  our  minds. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Hen,  "  did  some  of  your 
fellows  shoot  at  us  last  night  ? " 

Convict  Evariste  Moore,  aged  54,  doing 
twenty  years  for  killing  another  negro  in  Point 
Coupee,  couldn't  say  exactly.  But  if  any  fool 
guard  had  done  so  he  was  ready  to  apologize 
on  behalf  of  the  State. 

Anyhow  we  were  asleep  on  forbidden  ground, 
the  wattermillion  patch  of  the  State  convict 
farm  of  Louisiana.  We  got  out  lazily  and  built 
our  twig  fire  for  coffee  and  invited  Evariste  to 
have  some.  He  glanced  cautiously  about  and 


168    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

took  the  cup,  but  respectfully  stood  at  attention, 
hat  off,  while  he  conversed.  He  told  us  all  about 
the  camp,  said  he  was  treated  very  well,  and 
when  Hen  took  his  picture  a  gush  of  tears  filled 
the  black  man's  eyes.  "  If  you-all  gem'men 
send  that  picture  back  to  mah  wife  in  ole  Point 
Coupee,  she  be  the  nappies'  'oman  in  dis  hull 
gove'ment! " 

We  assured  him  we  would.  We  went  over  to 
see  the  commandant  later.  He  told  us  undoubt 
edly  one  of  the  guards  had  fired  at  our  camp, 
as  they  were  ordered  to  do  at  any  fire  started 
on  the  farm  grounds.  We  did  not  stop  to  de 
mand  justice,  but  went  on  down  the  bayou  to 
camp  the  next  night  on  Albania  plantation, 
where  the  young  manager,  Monsieur  Allain, 
was  more  hospitable.  The  old  Albania  planta 
tion-house  was  built  in  1830  and  still  stood  in 
its  original  grove  of  oaks  and  pecans. 

We  discussed  with  Mr.  Allain  the  best  way 
to  get  over  in  the  great  chain  of  lakes  and  little- 
known  bayous  stretching  northwest  to  the  Mis 
sissippi  from  the  Teche.  He  tried  to  dissuade 


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THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    169 

us,  saying  the  swamps  there  were  flooded  from 
the  overflowed  Atchafalaya  and  Mississippi,  but 
finally  loaned  us  the  inevitable  nigger  and  mule 
cart  to  portage  our  boat  across  the  fields.  Out 
of  the  beautiful  level  cane  ground,  fine  and  fresh 
as  a  new-worked  garden,  the  road  grew  rougher 
and  wetter,  the  mule-cart  bumped  and  jogged 
over  logs  and  into  pools  where  the  moccasins 
crawled  from  the  wheels.  Finally,  at  sunset,  the 
darky  declined  to  go  any  farther  into  the  big 
woods.  He  said  it  was  a  bad  swamp  from  now 
on,  and  there  were  no  houses  and  probably  no 
land  to  be  found  above  water. 

Now  Hen  and  I  should  have  camped  right 
then  and  there  rather  than  go  into  the  Grand 
Swamp  at  nightfall.  But  we  felt  fit  and  fine, 
having  slept  most  of  the  afternoon,  so  after  buy 
ing  a  live  chicken  from  the  last  nigger  shanty  on 
the  road  we  paddled  off  into  the  flooded  forest. 
For  a  mile  or  so  we  found  a  tolerable  straight 
lane,  and  then  the  blazed  trees  marked  the  trail. 
But  presently,  as  the  sunset  and  the  gloom  gath 
ered  in  the  mighty  cypress,  we  had  to  turn  from 


170    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

this  blazed  trail  to  paddle  around  a  fallen  tree 
and  this  involved  us  in  a  patch  of  brush  under 
which  we  pulled  and  dragged  our  pirogue,  con 
suming  so  much  time  that  when  we  had  got  into 
open  water  once  more  we  were  surprised  to  find 
how  dark  it  had  become  and  that  off  to  the 
northwest  there  were  mutters  of  a  coming  storm. 
Then  we  were  unpleasantly  surprised  to  find 
that  the  blazed  trail  we  were  following  was  no 
longer  ascertainable. 

We  paddled  on  through  the  gloomy  shades, 
looking  for  a  lessening  of  the  trees  which  would 
mark  the  shore  of  Grand  Lake.  We  had  been 
directed  to  the  camp  of  a  lonely  hunter  who 
would  receive  us  on  Allain's  word.  But  we  had 
to  make  another  long  detour,  working  about 
floating  logs  and  under  a  jungle  of  creepers  and 
latanier  palms.  The  big  lake  had  overflown  its 
banks  and  there  was  land  nowhere. 

"  There's  a  sizable  chance,"  murmured  Hen, 
"  of  roosting  in  a  tree  to-night." 

It  looked  more  like  it  every  yard.    And  the 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    171 

storm  grew  rapidly,  so  rapidly  that  presently, 
save  for  the  flashes  of  lightning  and  the  shim 
mer  of  a  young  moon  all  but  obscured,  we  saw 
nothing.  And  then  the  great  gray  trees  with 
their  flying  moss  streamers  were  not  reassuring. 
As  the  wind  soared  stronger  we  dwelt  upon  the 
possibility  of  a  limb  plunging  down  and  sink 
ing  us  all  yards  deep  in  the  swamp  mud.  We 
got  under  a  veritable  hornets'  nest  of  thorn- 
yines  where  we  had  to  use  the  axe  to  free  the 
boat,  and  by  that  time  the  squall  hit  the  big 
woods  with  a ,  demoniacal  fury.  How  it  did  roar 
and  blow! 

We  brought  up  under  the  lee  of  a  fallen  log 
and  hung  there  tightly  while  the  forest  heaved 
and  shrieked  about  us.  A  spatter  of  rain  came 
with  it,  but  we  faced  it  head  down,  resolved  not 
to  take  chances  on  trying  to  find  shelter  under 
our  rubber  cloth  in  this  melee.  Fortunately 
there  was  little  rain.  The  gale  buffeted  us  for 
half  an  hour,  with  the  most  terrifying  electric 
display  I  ever  saw,  and  then  as  suddenly  died 


172    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

down.  Only  a  dying  blast  came  now  and  then, 
and  behind  the  flying  scud  the  stars  were  shin 
ing  as  peacefully  as  they  had  an  hour  ago.  Our 
hair  and  faces  were  rilled  with  bits  of  moss  and 
rotten  bark  torn  from. the  trees,  and  when  we 
tried  to  push  out,  the  broken  brush  impeded  the 
pirogue.  But  at  last,  after  a  few  more  hundred 
yards  of  work,  we  saw  a  thinning  in  the  forest, 
struggled  toward  it,  and  from  there  caught  a 
glimpse  of  open  water.  The  shimmer  of  the 
waves  in  the  setting  moon  showed  us  the  way. 
We  paddled  into  the  big  lake  at  last,  tired  from 
a  four  hours'  battle  with  the  swamp. 

But  nowhere  had  we  found  an  inch  of  land. 
The  majestic  cypress  arose  sheer  from  the 
depths,  and  their  spiked  knees  caused  us  to 
paddle  warily  away  from  the  points.  Luckily 
the  sea  was  fast  running  down  and  when  we 
rounded  the  first  point  we  were  in  calm  water. 
But  not  a  house  or  a  habitation,  nor  even  a  foot 
hold!  As  we  worked  on,  skirting  the  forest 
shore,  I  felt  a  movement  at  my  feet,  and  the 
bedrabbled  rooster  we  had  purchased  uprose  and 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    173 

crowed,  shaking  the  water  from  his  tail.  He 
had  been  tied  to  the  main  sheet,  the  stick  and 
canvas  lying  furled  under  me. 

"  Good  old  scout! "  yelled  Hen,  "that  sounds 
very  cheerful!"  Then  he  pointed:  "Brought 
us  luck — there's  a  light!'* 

We  saw  a  gleam  far  to  the  east.  I  laid  a 
course  for  it — and  it  disappeared.  Then  I 
struck  a  bearing  from  the  far  point  of  land  and 
one  dim  star  ahead  and  steered  on.  Twice  again 
we  saw  the  light,  and  each  time  it  went  out  or 
was  hidden.  We  anxiously  scanned  the  dark 
line  of  forest.  The  last  bend  of  shore  brought 

us  full  in  the  run  of  the  waves  from  the  lake, 
and  the  wind  was  again  rising.  The  Bantayan 

wallowed  down  badly  with  her  handicap  of  rain 
water  under  the  pack,  and  we  were  unable  to 
bail.  Then  we  ran  into  a  field  of  our  old  en 
emies,  the  water  hyacinths,  tossing  on  the  waves, 
and  these  sheered  us  far  off  our  course. 

It  was  an  hour  before  we  drew  near  the  point 
where  the  light  had  been.  The  shore  was  dark 
as  Erebus.  We  stopped  and  began  shouting. 


174     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Then  we  paddled  a  mile  along  the  woods,  shout 
ing  and  hallooing.  The  prospect  of  encounter 
ing  another  blow  on  Grand  Lake  with  a  shore 
line  so  rilled  with  tossing  logs  and  deadly  cy 
press  spur~  that  one  could  not  approach  it  was 
not  assuring.  On  we  paddled  in  the  dark,  anx 
iously  trying  to  distinguish  the  tossing  lily 
masses  from  the  drifting  logs.  The  wreckage 
was  smashing  against  the  bases  of  the  sub 
merged  cypress  trees,  and  one  stretch  of  shore 
consisting  of  willows  gleamed  a  ghastly  white 
against  the  forest  because  of  the  trees  being  com 
pletely  skinned  by  the  bombardment.  The  whole 
shore  of  the  lake  was  rilled  with  this  wreckage 
of  the  upper  rivers  poured  by  the  Mississippi 
into  the  Atchafalaya.  If  we  had  known  then  as 
much  as  we  did  later  we  never  would  have  tack 
led  it.  The  entire  country  north  of  us,  forest, 
lake,  and  bayou,  was  buried  under  the  rushing 
torrents  from  the  Father  of  Waters. 

But  Hen  and  I  went  blundering  on  in  tha? 
thirteen-foot  hollow  log  looking  for  land.  We 
whooped  again  for  that  mysterious  light.  It  was 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    175 

dirty  going,  and  presently  the  wash  of  water 
inside  the  pirogue  was  alarming.  She  was  fill 
ing  from  the  smash  of  the  seas,  for  we  had  to 
keep  her  broadside  to  them  to  skirt  the  shore. 
To  head  out  was  madness  and  to  attempt  run 
ning  in  over  the  flooded  shore  among  the  drift 
age  was  equally  dangerous. 

And  just  when  we  began  to  think  the  voyage 
of  the  Bantayan  had  ended  right  there,  and  we 
would  weather  the  night  in  a  tree,  a  light  flashed 
out  startlingly  close.  Then  we  made  out  a  high 
platform  camp.  A  man  was  peering  across  the 
whitecaps  at  us.  And  the  way  we  headed  the 
Bantayan  about  and  came  splashing  in  under 
that  platform  was  illuminating.  We  were 
scared.  The  last  seas  filled  and  rolled  the  pi 
rogue  like  a  log  broadside  on  against  the  pilings, 
so  that  we  grasped  desperately  at  the  foot  of  the 
ladder. 

The  swampers  above  were  yelling  down  at  us 
in  French.  Finally,  with  their  help  we  got  the 
'Bantayan  out  of  the  wash  and  driftage  and  on 
a  submerged  float  behind  the  camp.  Then  we 


176    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

crawled  up  wet  and  chilled.  A  gaunt,  bearded 
man  was  staring  at  us.  Then  a  younger  one  ad 
dressed  us  in  fair  English.  We  were  in  a  Grand 
Lake  tie-cutters'  camp  and  a  dozen  Creoles  and 
Spaniards  from  the  deep  swamp  had  taken  ref 
uge  on  M'sieu  Landry's  platform  until  the  storm 
was  over.  When  we  told  them  we  had  made  our 
way  in  the  dark  across  the  swamp  from  the  Teche 
they  were  frankly  incredulous. 

"  Tres  bien,  M'sieu,  but  how  yo'  know  trail?  " 

"Didn't  know  any  trail!  We  just  bumped 
her  through." 

The  young  man  shook  his  head.  "  Yo'  wan 
lucky  man!  By  Gar,  I  couldn't  find  mah  way 
in  dis  stawm  and  de  Crevasse!" 

Hen  whispered  to  me  as  he  wrung  the  water 
out  of  his  socks. 

"Say,  we've  made  a  reputation!  Now  don't 
spoil  it  by  any  fool  exhibitions  with  your  paddle 
to-morrow!  Throw  out  your  chest  and  tell  'em 
that  this  was  just  a  little  joy  ride! " 

"  Hi,  if  only  Allesjandro  could  see  us  now! 
If  we  ever  get  back  to  Clark  Cheniere  we'll  give 
a  ball  in  honor  of  Ponce  de'Leon  and  Columbus 


We  shot  squirrels  along  the  jungle-grown  shores 
Grand  Lake. 


of 


THROUGH  THE  DEEP  SWAMP    177 

and  Balboa  and  our  other  fellow-navigators." 
Hen  sat  down  to  his  coffee  and  gave  a  fervent 

account  of  our  travels  and  the  Cajuns  listened 

respectfully. 

Then  young  Landry  murmured:    "  Yo'  sho' 

wan  beeg  pirogue  man!     But  why  yo'  travel 

round  with  dat  chicken  tied  by  hees  leg  to  dat 

string  in  dat  boat?" 

Outside  we  heard  that  fool  rooster  give  a 

cheerful  crow,  for  it  was  now  close  to  dawn. 

Clearly  we  were  under  suspicion. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING 

WHEN  I  awoke  under  the  mosquito  bar 
M'sieu  Felix  Landry  was  moving 
softly  about.  He  greeted  us  with 
gentle  courtesy,  and  we  discovered  that  the  other 
half-dozen  men  had  breakfasted  and  gone  quietly 
away  "  out  front "  in  the  pirogues.  They  had 
all  talked  in  undertones  so  as  not  to  disturb  the 
sleeping  guests.  Can  you  imagine  half  a  dozen 
Irish  or  American  woodsmen  tiptoeing  about  a 
room  out  of  consideration  for  two  strangers?  I 
can't.  That  was  the  Creole  of  it. 

M'sieu  Landry  was .  animated  enough  now. 
His  son,  Florion,  had  caught  a  fine  gaspergou, 
and  we  had  a  famous  cou'bouillion.  Also  small, 
snappy  biscuits,  the  best  ever.  Felix  had  been 
cook  on  a  Mississippi  packet,  but  love  for  the 

178 


SOME  $OUGH  PADDLING      179 

woods  drove  him  back  to  them.  In  the  four  days 
the  Norther  kept  us  penned  up  on  the  platform 
camp  he  and  I  fraternized  over  that  most  mel 
lowing  of  outdoor  bonds — camp  grub.  Florion 
and  I  shot  black  squirrels  in  the  swamps,  and 
Hen  hooked  a  big  catfish  and  a  'gou  or  two,  and 
we  had  cou'bouillions,  jambelayas,  poisson  pi- 
quantes,  roux,  all  made  famously  under  the  hand 
of  M'sieu  Felix.  Florion  caught  some  crawfish 
and  we  had  a  great  bisque.  M'sieu  was  delighted 
to  have  a  pupil  in  Cajun  cookery. 

Four  days  we  ate  and  smoked  and  argued  in 
the  swamp  patois  interlarded  with  our  pidgin- 
English.  Six  other  men  came  in,  driven  from 
the  lakes  by  the  storm.  We  were  on  Lake  False 
Point,  we  found.  Grand  Lake  was  just  visible 
through  a  stormy  pass  to  the  east.  To  the  west 
the  whitecaps  beat  on  unbroken  forest  through 
which  the  fierce  currents  whirled  from  the  flooded 
Atchafalaya.  It  was  great  luck  finding  Lan- 
dry's  camp — otherwise  Hen  and  I  would  have 
been  in  for  it.  The  Cajuns  all  declared  we  could 
not  ascend  the  chain  of  lakes  in  this  ridiculous 


180   THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

pirogue.  There  was  no  land  above  water,  no 
shores,  nor  would  there  be  any  good  weather  this 
month.  Everything  was  drowned  by  the  angry 
rivers  pouring  their  floods  down  from  the  melted 
snows  of  all  America ;  it  would  be  one  continual 
torrent  through  the  Atchafalaya  lakes  until  after 
the  May  headrise. 

"Well,"  retorted  Hen  amicably,  "we  can't 
go  back,  so  we've  got  to  go  on.  I  like  this 
blamed  country — where  there's  any  of  it  above 
water — and  I  like  the  grub.  Florida  is  an  old 
ladies'  home  compared  to  this  shindig." 

Our  gentle  old  Creole  friend  kept  his  lamp 
burning  in  the  window  all  night  after  our  advent, 
for,  as  he  explained:  "  Ah,  M'sieu!  How  I  not 
know  some  odder  lost  man  lak  yo'  not  be  out  in 
dat  stawm? " 

He  also  asked  solicitously  if  we  knew  the  sig 
nals  for  the  lost.  Two  quick  shots  and  then  a 
single  one,  repeated?  We  told  him  we  did,  and 
also  the  rule  of  the  woods  that  a  needy  swamper 
may  break  into  any  untenanted  camp  he  sees 
and  help  himself  to  grub,  provided  always  he 
does  no  wanton  damage  in  the  camp. 


SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING       181 

Florion  and  I  had  another  squirrel  hunt  with 
his  two  "  runnin  '  pirogues."  They  were  twelve- 
foot  craft,  hewn  to  such  a  thin  nicety  on  the  sides 
that  they  were  hardly  more  than  canvas — low, 
needle-like  canoes  in  which  we  skimmed  over 
places  where  the  heavier  boats  could  not  run. 

I  did  the  rummy  trick  of  shooting  over  my 
right  gunwale  from  the  pirogue  and  promptly 
took  a  ducking.  The  slender  boat  shot  upside 
down  from  the  recoil  so  quickly  that  I  came  up 
gasping,  to  meet  Florion's  gentle  laughter. 

"  Only  two  ways  yo'  can  shoot  from  dat  boat! 
Wan  right  head  and  odder  way  over  yo'  left — 
and  yo'  mus'  watch  her  at  that !  " 

We  had  some  great  squirrel  hunts.  Also  took 
a  shot  at  a  great  white-headed  eagle  which  I 
drove  from  its  nest.  Then  we  went  back  to 
camp,  dried  our  clothes,  and  lolled  about  while 
Felix  got  dinner.  Always,  of  course,  came  the 
preliminary  coffee. 

Florion  played  his  mouth-organ  and  told  joy 
ously  of  his  "girl"  over  in  St  Mary's  parish. 
He  was  a  handsome,  brown-throated  boy,  gentle 
and  merry  and  skilled  to  the  woods  and  water; 


182     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

with  a  laughing  curiosity  as  to  the  great  world 
whence  we  came.  Two  more  of  the  swampers 
returned  that  afternoon  and  another  feast  was  on 
— game  and  rice  and  sweet  cakes.  All  this  time 
our  hapless  chicken,  dubbed  "  Lord  Teche,"  had 
been  roosting  out  on  the  platform,  tied  to  a 
string,  fed  every  day  to  repletion,  but  lonesome. 
We  thought  of  hospitably  decapitating  him,  and 
then  our  hearts  smote  us.  He  had  got  to  be  a 
friend — and  besides  there  wouldn't  be  enough  of 
that  little  chicken  for  six  lusty  men! 

So  Lord  Teche  crowed  valiantly  every  morn 
ing  and  scratched  the  door  for  M'sieu  Landry  to 
come  fetch  his  breakfast.  The  Creoles  were  too 
polite  to  intimate  that  chicken  was  good.  Any 
how  we  had  game  and  fish  in  abundance. 

At  night  the  Creoles  played  ff  vingt'un  "  and 
another  game  that  they  called — to  us — "  Beeg 
dog." 

"Ah,  dat  beeg  dog!"  said  Felix,  "I  catch 
dat  ole  lady  ace,  but  dat  beeg  dog — heem  never 
I  catch  wan  lettle  time." 

"Beeg  dog"  was  the  jack  of  spades,  we 
learned. 


SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING      183 

And  now,  ye  neurasthenics,  ye  thin  o'  hair 
and  worn  of  eye  with  the  tread-mill  of  the  cities, 
I  want  to  tell  you  something.  A  glimpse  of  the 
Fountain!  At  least  what  our  wilderness  had 
brought  to  Hen  and  me.  We  were  tired  that 
night,  from  pulling  in  the  currents  on  a  fishing 
trip  to  the  big  cypress  points,  so  we  turned  in 
earlier  than  our  hosts,  and  I  declare  to  you  that, 
lying  in  my  bunk,  my  head  within  two  feet  of 
the  table  where  four  men  were  wrangling  over 
the  card  game,  and  wrangling  with  laughter  long 
after  midnight,  I  fell  asleep  and  never  woke  up 
till  the  sun  poked  his  morning  face  into  camp! 
Can  you  beat  it?  No,  you  can't!  You've  got 
to  wander  over  the  face  of  the  waters  and  under 
the  beat  of  the  sun  and  be  swept  by  the  Gulf 
breezes,  and  struck  by  the  slant  of  the  rain  for 
three  months  to  be  able  to  drop  down  in  swamp 
er's  shack  and  know  the  dreamless  slumber  of  the 
heart  at  peace. 

They  were  at  their  "  beeg  dog  "  another  night 
when  I  was  writing  up  my  notebook  at  the  same 
table.  I  became  aware,  my  glance  bent  on  the 
paper,  that  their  languorous  murmur  had  ceased, 


184.    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

and  looked  up  to  find  the  eyes  of  all  five  men 
fixed  on  me  intently.  A  big,  lanky  swamper 
had  said  something  to  call  their  attention  to  me. 
Old  Felix  now  laughed  apologetically. 

"  My  friend  he  say  if  he  could  write  so  lak  dat 
he  sho'  neve'  would  be  in  dees  swamps." 

The  big  swamper  laid  down  his  cards  and 
laughed  too,  wistfully. 

"  I  sho'  neve'  would.  If  I  had  wan  educa 
tion  lak  dat  I  sho'  go  to  N'Awlyins  and  be  a  clerk 
in  a  sto'." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  I  answered.  "  You  just 
think  you  would.  You'd  try  it  and  be  stiff  and 
cramped  and  ashamed  to  be  bossed  by  some  shop 
keeper,  and  some  day  you'd  think  of  the  free 
lake,  and  the  sun,  and  the  wind  off  the  big  salt 
water  up  from  the  Gulf,  and  then  you'd  throw 
up  your  job  and  come  back  to  the  woods." 

But  he  laughed,  a  sort  of  pathos  in  his  brown 
eyes,  rubbing  his  big  hands,  as  he  watched  my 
notebook  and  Hen's  camera.  "  Mebbe.  But  I 
would  lak  tryin'  to  be  a  clerk  in  a  sto'." 

The  next   day  the  norther  seemed  to   have 


SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING      185 

blown  itself  out.  We  could  see  the  light  green 
of  the  tupelo  gums  against  the  gray  of  the  cy 
press  across  Lake  False  Point  at  least,  even  if 
the  yellow  tides  ran  fast  and  higher  day  by  day. 
Landry  counseled  us  to  wait,  but  we  had  been 
guests  of  these  gentle  folk  long  enough.  So 
the  next  morning,  wondrously  beautiful,  clear 
and  calm  at  dawn,  we  got  away,  the  Bantayan 
packed  tidily,  and  Lord  Teche  in  his  den  under 
the  coaming.  The  woodsmen  warned  us  to  stick 
close  to  the  west  shore  of  the  lakes;  they  were 
doubtful  as  to  where  we  would  find  a  stopping- 
place  at  night.  Certainly  no  land  was  above 
water  in  seventy  miles,  and  there  were  few  camps 
along  the  Atchafalaya  lakes  now  occupied. 

We  paddled  away  much  lightened  by  leaving 
our  sail  and  spar  behind ;  also  part  of  our  kitchen 
irons  and  some  of  our  grub.  But  we  had  a 
week's  provisions,  and  here,  in  the  fresh  lakes, 
had  no  need  of  carrying  water,  as  we  did  in  the 
Barataria  region.  The  Creoles  shouted  a  cheery 
farewell  as  we  drove  around  Point  Camille. 
Never  did  we  meet  a  better  reception,  but  among 


186    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

a  people  who  met  us  everywhere  with  kindness 
it  is  hard  to  choose. 

We  rounded  Point  Metier  and  Point  Coquille 
that  morning  only  to  run  into  a  freshing  north 
wester  that  drove  a  dirty  sea  in  our  faces.  But 
we  had  to  keep  on  hugging  the  shore  so  that  if 
the  Bantayan  filled  and  plunged  to  the  bottom 
under  her  load  we  could  at  least  swim  to  the 
trees — a  dismal  refuge,  however,  for  miles  of 
flooded  swamp  would  confront  a  man  in  any  di 
rection.  In  fact  there  was  hardly  a  chance  of 
getting  out  alive,  if  once  shipwrecked. 

We  had  trouble  at  all  the  points,  for  the  yel 
low  floods  boiled  so  fiercely  among  the  stumps 
and  trees  that  we  dared  not  seek  refuge  there.  At 
noon  we  cautiously  ran  the  pirogue's  nose  up  to 
a  tossing  fragment  of  a  log  raft,  pulled  her  up, 
and  ate  a  hasty  lunch.  Lord  Teche  was  set  out 
on  the  logs  to  stretch  his  legs.  But  the  wind  was 
getting  high  and  we  put  in  in  a  few  minutes,  for 
it  would  have  been  a  desperate  shore  to  be  weath 
ered  on.  The  trees  and  saplings  in  the  cove  were 
literally  torn^to  splinters  by  the  pounding  they 


SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING      187 

had  got  from  the  driftage  during  the  recent  gale. 
So  we  had  to  head  the  tiny  Bant  ay  an  straight  out 
in  the  whitecaps. 

It  was  bad.  We  paddled  on,  seeing  no  one, 
nor  a  boat  nor  camp  all  the  day — nothing  but  the 
stormy  lake  on  one  hand  and  the  impenetrable 
jungle  on  the  other.  The  lake  is  well  named 
Fausse  (False)  Point.  Time  and  again  we  were 
encouraged  to  work  for  hours  to  a  bold  promon 
tory,  thinking  to  find  it  land  above  water  and 
offering  a  haven,  to  discover  nothing  but  the 
crash  of  the  drift  among  the  great  butts  of  the 
cypress — and  another  great  curve  of  forest  be 
yond. 

Grand  Pass,  fifteen  miles  to  the  east,  was  filled 
now  with  lowering  scud,  and  a  spatter  of  rain 
came  at  times  out  of  the  northwest. 

"  Bad  weather  due,"  growled  Hen;  "  I  guess 
we  should  have  taken  Landry's  word  and  stayed 
off  the  lakes.  Catch  those  waves  a  bit  deeper  and 
hold  her  head  on.  It's  mean  steering  back  here." 

It  was  mean  forward.  The  pirogue  split  the 
combers,  but  a  lot  of  them  shook  themselves  over 


188     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

me,  and  only  her  tight  little  decked  space,  not  so 
much  bigger  than  a  bushel-basket,  kept  from 
filling.  As  it  was  Lord  Teche,  between  my 
knees,  was  soused  now  and  then,  and  I  began  to 
estimate  the  amount  of  water  down  under  the 
luggage.  We  could  not  rest  a  moment  to  bail 
it.  We  began  to  scan  the  long,  wave-beaten  line 
of  forest  more  anxiously  as  the  sky  dulled.  The 
gale  blew  steadier  and  harder  every  hour. 

I  glanced  back  once  to  see  Hen  spitting  the 
top  of  a  whitecap  from  his  teeth — it  had  curled 
us  neatly  on  the  starboard  and  only  the  rubber 
cloth  saved  us  from  swamping.  As  it  was,  it 
took  lively  work  to  bring  the  dugout  around  be 
fore  the  next  wave  caught  us.  We  held  off  the 
shore  until  dusk.  Now  and  then  we  heard  the 
crash  of  a  falling  limb  in  the  flooded  woods.  The 
vast  masses  of  Spanish  moss  waving  from  the 
cypress  were  indescribably  gloomy  and  depress 
ing,  and  the  thought  of  seeking  shelter  in  that 
fearsome  wood  was  more  so.  We  had  not  seen 
an  inch  of  land  above  water  all  day. 

The  last  round  of  a  point  laid  our  course  so 


SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING      189 

that  the  swells  had  us  full  broadside  and  we 
stopped  to  scan  seriously  the  line  of  dirty  sea. 

"  As  sure  as  shooting  fish  in  a  bucket,  we'll 
be  slammed  into  the  cypress  spikes,  if  we  try  to 
keep  close  in,"  said  Hen.  "  Let's  make  a  tree 
roost  of  it  for  the  night." 

"  And  lose  our  canoe  and  outfit? "  I  retorted. 
"  No,  we'll  have  to  beat  it  on  and  look  for  a 
chance  to  run  in  some  cove  or  bayou." 

Darkness  was  lowering  when  we  were  crawl 
ing  slowly,  with  minute  inspection  of  the  mass 
of  drift  grinding  among  the  trees,  along  a  mile- 
wide  cove.  It  offered  no  harbor — was,  in  fact, 
worse  than  the  sheer  lake.  But  at  the  far  side 
the  grim  wall  of  forest  was  a  bit  broken  and  we 
saw  the  shine  of  the  latanier  palms  in  a  sort  of 
glade.  When  we  reached  it  all  we  saw  was 
water  stretching  in,  and  between  us  and  its  com 
parative  calm  a  hundred  yards  of  solid  wreck 
age  with  the  yellow  waves  leaping  all  along  its 
outer  edge.  It  was  hopeless. 

We  had  worked  on  past  this  mass  and  I  was 
digging  off  on  the  weather  side  to  draw  the 


190    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

dugout's  nose  up  into  the  waves,  when  I  heard 
Hen  shout. 

"  I  saw  a  camp!" 

I  shot  a  hasty  glance  at  the  wood  shore.  A 
great  eddy  had  hurled  us  on  and  I  could  see 
nothing.  But  Hen  kept  yelling  that  he  saw  a 
camp  behind  the  fringe  of  storm-torn  maples. 

"  If  you  think  so,  let's  head  her  in,"  I  yelled. 
"  But  God  help  us  if  there  ain't!  All  that  stuff 
above  is  working  down  on  us,  and  the  spikes  are 
thicker  in  there  than  hair  on  a  dog." 

We  watched  our  chance  to  bring  the  pirogue 
about  and  run  with  the  seas  before  one  slapped 
us  broadside.  Hen  yelled  again.  The  first 
comber  on  the  turn  had  gone  all  over  him — 
rolled  clear  forward,  in  fact,  and  struck  my 
back. 

"Dig!"  he  cried,  and  we  shot  in.  "Dig!" 
and  we  swept  past  a  mass  of  battering  logs. 
Then  a  swift  draw  of  the  paddles  and  the  canoe 
lifted  past  a  serried  row  of  cypress  spikes  half 
buried  in  the  foam.  And  then  another  and  an 
other.  We  hurried  the  Bantayan  this  way  and 


SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING      191 

that  like  a  scared  cat,  as  the  seas  chased  into  the 
woods  after  us.  And  then  we  saw  a  mass  of 
our  old  friends,  the  water  hyacinths,  and  shot 
her  behind  them,  where  only  the  heave  of  the 
swells  stirred  us,  and  dropped  our  paddles, 
sweating  and  soaked. 

Sure  enough,  right  ahead  of  us  was  a  log  hut 
perched  on  its  platform.  We  could  get  no 
nearer,  so  we  slid  overboard  in  water  above  our 
waists  and  dragged  the  pirogue  on  a  few  yards 
into  the  floating  tangle — logs,  vines,  lilies,  grass, 
and  dirty  foam.  But  we  could  not  work  her 
within  a  hundred  feet  of  the  shack.  I  left  Hen 
anchored  to  a  tree  and  struggled  to  the  place, 
swimming,  wading,  climbing.  The  door  was 
padlocked,  but  I  could  see  in  the  chinks.  It  was 
occupied,  or  had  been  of  late.  I  went  back  and 
we  brought  our  duffle  sacks  to  the  platform, 
along  with  Lord  Teche  on  his  hobble.  The 
canoe  we  dragged  up  on  a  fallen  but  solid  tree 
and  left  it  tied. 

We  rattled  the  padlock  chain  and  called.  But 
it  was  plain  no  one  was  about.  Where  the  mud 


192     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

had  fallen  from  the  chinks  we  saw  moss-filled 
bunks,  a  clay  furnace,  open  fireplace,  and  a 
table. 

"  I  reckon,  as  we're  castaways,  we  might  as 
well  invoke  the  law  of  the  woods  and  make  our 
selves  comfortable,"  I  said.  "  Hand  up  that 
old  axe!" 

We  chopped  the  staple  out  of  the  door  and 
threw  it  open. 

It  was  a  darkies'  swamp  camp,  the  crudest 
imaginable,  but  it  offered  a  roof.  And  we 
needed  one.  In  fifteen  minutes  a  fury  of  rain 
and  wind  broke  over  us  that  set  the  woods  to 
howling.  Crash  after  crash  told  of  where  the 
trees  were  falling  in  the  soaked  under-soil.  But 
we  had  a  fire  going  in  no  time  and  the  blaze 
made  even  the  day  and  the  log  camp  seem  home 
like  after  that  lake.  There  was  no  chimney. 
The  smoke  made  its  way  out  through  a  raised 
slab  of  the  roof.  We  were  too  weary  to  look 
about  or  speculate  as  to  the  owners.  We  cooked 
a  hasty  supper,  hung  out  soaked  clothes  about 
the  fire,  and  tumbled  on  our  blankets  spread  on 


On  Bayou  Tcchc. 


SOME  ROUGH  PADDLING      193 

the  moss  bunks,  fervently  hoping  there  were  no 
other  occupants.  We  had  barred  the  door  so 
that,  if  the  niggers  came  back  in  the  night — 
which  was  hardly  possible,  as  it  did  not  seem 
a  human  being  could  live  in  the  swamp  in  that 
hurricane — they  would  have  to  awaken  us  and 
give  time  for  explanations.  At  that  I  slept 
with  my  revolver  within  pulling  reach.  The 
swamp  blacks  are  given  a  bad  name  by  some. 
But  we  dropped  into  a  slumber  that  all  Africa 
could  not  have  broken. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS 

WE  awoke  to  another  cool,  bright,  but 
treacherous  spring  morning.  The  sun 
shone  through  the  chinks  of  the  wet 
hut  and  the  mocking  birds  sang  in  the  swamp 
maples,  while  the  wide-stretching  lake  was  blue 
and  dimpling  beyond  the  line  of  battered  drift 
age  hemming  us  in.  Our  canoe  had  come 
through  safely  on  its  perch  on  the  big  log.  We 
passed  a  leisurely  morning  rubbing  our  stiff 
bones  and  drying  clothes.  And  here,  in  this 
lonely  camp,  there  came  an  end  to  the  adven 
tures  of  Lord  Teche. 

"  I  do  hate  to  kill  that  chicken,"  murmured 
Hen,  "  but  this  morning  I  feel  like  fried  chicken. 
Anyhow,  we'd  lose  him  if  we  tried  to  carry  him 
much  farther." 

194 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS      195 

So  a  few  crocodile  tears,  and  then  fried 
chicken.  We  had  knocked  about  for  eight  days 
with  that  bayou  rooster,  and  this  was  the  first 
camp  where  we  had  time  for  sad  but  fitting  rites. 
Besides,  we  were  afraid  the  owners  of  the  shack 
would  return,  and  you  all  know  it  is  not  well  to 
bring  chicken  and  a  colored  brother  into  too  im 
mediate  juxtaposition. 

After  breakfast  we  waded  to  the  pirogue, 
turned  it  over  a  log  to  drain,  then  waded  back 
and  carried  our  stuff  out  to  the  fringe  of  drift 
logs.  It  looked  like  another  puffy  day  on  the 
lake  and  we  were  anxious  to  get  off.  Ahead  of 
us  somewhere  was  Lake  Dotreve,  which  the 
swampers  had  assured  us  was  a  bad  bit  of  water 
in  the  Red  and  Atchafalaya  headrises  of  May. 
We  got  off  at  noon,  leaving  a  note  of  thanks 
on  the  table  for  our  unknown  hosts. 

"  But  the  chances  are,"  said  Hen,  "  the  nig 
gers  can't  read  and  will  think  someone  has  placed 
a  hoodoo  on  their  camp.  We'll  leave  a  more 
intelligible  message." 

So  we  made  a  present  of  some  canned  corn 


196    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

and  stuff  to  the  absentees,  selecting,  of  course, 
some  things  we  didn't  want  ourselves,  which  is 
the  soul  of  all  true  philanthropy.  Also  we 
cooked  a  batch  of  sour  dough  and  left  half  of 
it — the  burned  ones,  that  is,  for  our  reflector 
baker  just  naturally  would  burn  the  lower  row 
of  biscuits. 

It  was  three  o'clock  on  the  first  of  May  when 
we  paddled  about  the  last  great  spur  of  sub 
merged  cypress  butts  into  Lake  Dotreve.  Its 
blue  shore  line  of  forest  ten  miles  away  was  ut 
terly  lonely  and  uninhabited  as  far  as  we  could 
see.  Already  a  bad  sea  was  kicking  up  with 
the  freshing  northwester.  After  an  hour  of 
skirting  the  south  shore,  where  we  had  to  catch 
the  whitecaps  broadside  on,  we  made  out  what 
appeared  to  be  a  house  away  to  the  west.  Hen 
turned  the  Bantayan  out  straight  for  it,  and  the 
course  took  us  a  mile  and  a  half  off  shore.  We 
figured  to  cross  the  bend  before  the  lake  rough 
ened  too  much  for  the  pirogue.  But  presently 
a  wave  laced  us  fore  and  aft,  and  I  heard  the 
rush  of  the  water  under  our  luggage.  It  didn't 
look  good,  and  I  freely  said  so. 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS      197 

While  Hen  held  her  on  in  the  seas,  I  bailed 
cautiously — as  much  as  a  man  can  bail  a  loaded 
craft  when  he  cannot  in  the  least  turn  in  his 
seat,  nor  shift  his  weight  right  or  left,  without 
capsizing  her  instantly.  I  merely  could  spread 
my  knees  and  snatch  a  bit  of  water  with  a  tin 
cup. 

But  another  wave  undid  all  my  work — and 
then  another.  The  Bantayan  was  wallowing 
heavily.  The  nasty  seas  would  not  allow  her  to 
get  her  head  up,  as  a  canoe  might  have  done. 
We  held  a  hasty  council. 

"  It'll  be  no  easy  trick  to  turn  and  run  for 
the  shore,  but  it's  the  best  bet,"  Hen  muttered. 
"  Watch  for  the  sixth  swell — it's  always  the  big 
gest.  Then  dig  sharp  about  to  port — now!" 

We  ripped  the  blades  in  right  after  the  run 
of  the  water,  and  the  pirogue  got  her  tail  into 
the  seas  before  they  could  slap  her.  But  that 
retreat  back  to  the  swamp  shore  was  the  most 
ticklish  bit  of  pirogue  running  I  have  ever  had. 
The  waves  raced  past  us  level  with  the  tiny 
coaming,  so  brimming  level  that  when  I  saw 
them  under  my  elbows  I  simply  stopped  breath- 


198     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

ing  and  waited.  The  Eantayan  would  drop  to 
the  bottom  like  a  plummet  if  once  she  filled,  and 
our  chance  of  swimming  that  mile  of  yellow, 
angry  flood  sweeping  the  lake  was  slim,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  miles  of  impassable  swamp  be 
tween  us  and  the  back  levees  of  the  Teche  plan 
tations. 

I  never  was  happier  in  my  life  than  when  the 
water-logged  Eantayan  crept  slowly  up  to  the 
line  of  wave-splashed  trees,  found  a  hole,  and 
sneaked  in.  We  fetched  up  behind  a  lily-bank 
and  sat  there  watching  the  lake  ahead.  The 
gale  blew  up  niftily  in  half  an  hour.  The  pi 
rogue  was  lifted  on  the  long  undulations  run 
ning  under  the  lily-bank,  which  creaked  musi 
cally  in  its  waxy  green  leaves  and  bulbs. 

The  water  was  beyond  sounding  depth  here 
for  our  paddles.  Again  we  began  to  wish  we 
had  stuck  to  our  safe  refuge  on  False  Point 
Lake.  As  the  lilies  packed  tighter  we  began  to 
speculate  on  the  chance  of  a  night  in  the  jam. 
There  was  not  even  a  tree  near  us  big  enough 
to  stand  on. 

But  as  dark  fell  the  seas  began  to  run  down. 


THE  WATEEHOUSE  BOYS      199 

By  seven  I  advised  making  a  run  for  the  point 
where  we  had  seen  the  house,  and  after  fight 
ing  through  the  lily  jam  and  drift,  we  paddled 
on,  and  an  hour  later,  in  the  shimmer  of  a  young 
moon,  we  drew  up  to  the  first  land  we  had  seen 
in  nine  days  over  beyond  the  Grand  Lake 
swamps.  It  was  a  neck  of  marshy,  muddy  soil 
running  down  from  a  road  where  stood  the  little 
house  we  had  seen.  A  hasty  camp  was  made, 
and  at  the  house,  which  proved  to  be  a  forlorn 
store,  we  learned  that  this  was  Dotreve  Land 
ing  and  the  head  of  the  lake.  The  Cajun  keeper 
was  much  amazed  to  be  told  we  had  paddled 
from  Point  Camille  in  that  thirteen-foot  pi 
rogue.  He  shook  his  head — I  doubt  if  he  be 
lieves  it  yet. 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  we  loafed  and  cooked. 
Our  rubber  cloth  on  which  the  blankets  were 
laid  in  the  tent  lay  in  ground  so  soft  that  the 
water  gathered  under  us  and  made  a  bubbly 
sort  of  bed,  but  we  had  not  minded.  What  we 
minded  most  was  that  the  few  inhabitants  of 
Dotreve  Landing  said  we  could  not  possibly  get 
up  farther  on  the  chain  of  lakes. 


200    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

All  "  hell  and  high  water "  was  out  above, 
and,  what  was  worse,  none  of  them  seemed  to 
have  any  definite  idea  of  the  numberless  chan 
nels  that  poured  into  Lake  Dotreve  from  the 
Red  and  Atchafalaya  rivers.  But  they  were 
mighty  sure  that  our  pirogue  could  not  live  in 
any  of  them — it  wasn't  any  use  of  talking,  a 
man  simply  couldn't  paddle  up  Bayou  La 
Romp  or  Bayou  L'Embarrass!  And  if  he 
could,  where  would  he  get  to?  There  wasn't  a 
house  from  here  to  Butte  La  Rose,  where  the 
Waterhouse  boys  kept  the  bees,  and  that  must 
be  fifty  miles. 

Hen  and  I  discussed  this  pessimism  over  our 
Sunday  dinner.  And  by  a  chance,  while  Hen 
was  off  after  blackberries  later,  I  .happened  to 
glance  lakeward,  and  saw  a  launch  pounding 
up  to  the  plank  walk  beyond  the  store.  I  raced 
down  and  found  it  was  the  Dewdrop,  and  she 
had  come  to  bring  some  discharged  men  from  a 
dredge  boat  up  in  the  Butte  La  Rose  country. 
A  cheerful  young  engineer,  Parmalee,  was  in 
charge,  and  it  took  no  time  for  Parmalee  to 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS      201 

invite  us  to  go  back  with  him.  The  way  I  got 
Hen  out  of  the  blackberry  patch  and  to  work 
knocking  down  the  tent  and  piling  stuff  into 
the  Bantayan  was  a  caution. 

Parmalee  wanted  to  get  back  and  across  the 
bad  water  before  night.  So  while  the  Dewdrop 
chugged  across  Lake  Dotreve,  into  Bayou  Ben- 
tois,  then  Round  Lake,  all  lonely  and  aswirl 
with  sullen  water,  we  "made  supper,"  as  the 
Cajuns  say.  And  when  we  struck  Bayou 
L 'Embarrass  (Lombrass,  they  pronounce  it), 
we  agreed  with  the  natives  for  once.  We 
couldn't  have  navigated  that  rush  of  flood 
through  the  crooked;,  narrow  channel  by  any 
sort  of  means.  It  was  a  twenty-five-mile  pull 
of  terrific  water,  sometimes  one  hundred  feet 
deep  and  not  more  than  that  wide.  The  stout 
little  Devodrop  at  one  bend  was  whirled  com 
pletely  around  by  an  eddy,  and  then  shook  her 
stubby  head  and  tore  into  the  yellow  flood  like 
a  bulldog.  And  all  the  time  young  Parmalee 
laughed  with  the  light  of  battle  in  his  eye. 

We  made  Long  Lake  and  Bayou  La  Romp 


202    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

more  easily.  Up  here  the  flooded  forests 
changed  character.  We  saw  no  more  moss- 
hung  oak  and  cypress,  but  willows,  gum,  cot- 
tonwood,  and  maples  much  like  the  Mississippi 
above  the  delta  country. 

Parmalee,  the  launch  engineer,  had  the  usual 
incredulity  when  we  explained  our  presence  up 
the  Atchafalaya  lakes  by  saying  we  were  after 
"  pleasure."  Honestly,  we  had  no  more  explicit 
reason  to  give  anyone! 

"  I  swanny,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  you.  Nobody  ever  come  runnin'  into 
a  headrise  of  these  rivers  for  pleasure — to  say 
nothing  of  coming  in  that  crazy  coffin  of  yours. 
I  don't  reckon  you'd  mind  if  I  put  you  off  at 
the  head  of  La  Romp.  You  can  go  hang  out 
with  the  Waterhouse  boys." 

Hen  and  I  didn't  mind  anything.  One  place 
to  go  was  as  good  as  another.  At  least  we  had 
had  a  cheerful  knocking  around  for  the  past  ten 
weeks  on  that  very  principle.  So  at  dark, 
around  a  flooded  point,  where  the  Grand  River 
rushes  out  of  the  Atchafalaya  and  gives  birth 


THE  WATEEHOUSE  BOYS      203 

to  another  twisting  chain  of  lakes  ere  it  joins 
it  again  just  above  salt  water,  we  were  put 
ashore  on  a  floating  platform.  Parmalee  yelled 
cheerfully  to  someone  coming  along  the  planks 
with  a  lantern:  "Hey,  Loyd,  take  care  of 
these  two  guys,  will  you? "  and  then  the  Dew- 
drop  was  whirled  off  in  the  flood,  leaving  us  to 
the  mercy  of  the  strangers'  hospitality. 

We  had  it  to  the  full.    Two  brown-skinned, 

-» 

hearty  young  fellows  grabbed  our  duffle  and  got 
it  above  the  reach  of  the  hungry  current.  They 
asked  us  a  few  questions  and  then  set  to  work 
raising  our  tent  on  the  only  spot  of  land  still 
out  of  water. 

"  If  this  blamed  crevasse  drowns  you  off  of 
here,  we'll  stick  you  in  with  Len's  goats,"  they 
said  cheerfully.  "  Sorry  to  say  our  house  is 
full.  One  of  the  boys  just  got  married!" 

We  were  to  sleep  on  the  gallery  of  what  was 
once  a  "  sto' "  but  now  was  part  of  the  living 
rooms.  Under  the  "  gallerie "  the  goats  and 
pigs  wandered,  poking  in  the  heaps  of  stranded 
lilies  left  by  the  floods.  Len  was  a  great  talker, 


204     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

a  happy-go-lucky  swamper,  with  a  hospital 
ity  and  fund  of  knowledge  as  wide  as  all  out 
doors.  He  had  been  a  "  sto'-keeper  "  and  broke 
up  at  that — "  had  to  live  two  years  on  that  stock 
of  groceries  till  I  eat  it  all  up  myself,  seeing  I 
couldn't  sell  any,"  he  put  it.  Then  he  had  been 
a  river  pilot,  but  his  wife  objected,  so  now  he 
stayed  home  and  tended  bees.  Also  he  had  a 
halfacre  of  truck  garden  when  the  Grand  River 
wasn't  over  it.  "  When  it  is,  I  don't  have  to 
do  any  hoeing,  anyhow,"  said  Len  with  rare 
philosophy,  "  and  when  it  ain't,  I  can  depend 
on  the  goats  and  pigs  taking  it." 

His  bee  garden,  back  of  the  house,  was  the 
most  picturesque  tumbledown  bit  of  swamp- 
yard  I  ever  saw.  Every  hive  was  on  stilts  above 
the  water  and  a  perfect  maze  of  honeysuckle, 
iris,  hyacinths,  red  flags,  palms,  and  banana 
trees,  fig  shrubs,  umbrella  trees,  and  grape 
vines  had  grown  up  and  entwined  from  beehive 
to  fence  and  then  to  the  house  gallerie,  and  in 
and  out  of  this  wild,  sweet-smelling  bloom  the 
scarlet  tanagers  and  mocking  birds  sang  and 


THE  WATEEHOUSE  BOYS      205 

flitted;  while  under  it  the  big  bullfrogs  boomed 
and  croaked.  We  sat  that  night  on  the  front 
gallerie,  facing  the  river,  and  Len  enlarged  on 
life  as  he  knew  it. 

"  It's  ornery  sometimes.  If  the  river's  up,  I 
can't  fish;  and  if  it  ain't,  I've  no  time.  When 
my  wife's  well  she  pesters  me  to  tend  the  bees, 
and  when  she's  sick  I  have  to  wash  dishes.  I 
ought  to  make  a  great  living  here,  but  somehow 
I  don't." 

No,  he  didn't.  In  the  next  three  days,  when 
we  went  "  bush-catting  "  with  Len  up  Whiskey 
Bay  and  lounged  around  the  gallerie,  we  had 
more  grand  schemes  unfolded  to  us  than  is  imag 
inable.  Len  was  going  to  send  for  Angora 
goats  and  start  a  ranch;  he  was  going  to  plant 
osier  willows  and  manufacture  baskets;  he  had 
a  great  idea  of  making  paper  from  the  water 
hyacinth  bulbs;  or  an  indestructible  and  prob 
ably  unsmokable  corncob  pipe;  and  his  head 
was  full  of  plans  for  the  forming  of  stock  com 
panies  to  sell  fish  and  drift  logs  on  a  co-opera 
tive  basis. 


206     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

In  short,  Len  was  Colonel  Sellers  over  again. 
Meantime,  he  eked  out  a  living  by  taking  board 
ers — when  one  came  along,  which  was  seldom. 
Now  and  then  a  dredge  crew  stopped  over  at 
Len's  landing,  or  a  timber  cruiser  down  from 
the  big  river.  But  he  totally  refused  to  accept 
a  cent  from  us  for  staying  there.  His  wife  was 
ill,  and  Len  sang  as  he  washed  the  dishes,  telling 
us  betimes  of  his  correspondence  with  the  De 
partment  of  Agriculture  and  the  various  soci 
eties,  mail-order  houses,  and  promoters  with 
which  he  had  to  do.  He  belonged  to  three 
detective  associations  and  had  an  assortment  of 
tin  badges.  In  fact,  Len  was  a  "joiner"  of 
the  first  water. 

But  we  found  him  lively  and  original.  His 
wife  took  a  humorous  view  of  Len  and  life  in 
general.  "  Len  wants  to  go  back  to  the  river," 
she  said,  "  but  whenever  Len  says  boats,  I  say 
bees — and  bees  it  is." 

Len  grinned  appreciatively.  Some  guests 
had  come  in  this  evening  from  two  shanty  boats 
tied  in  the  woods  bank.  Everybody  stopped 


THE  WATEEHOUSE  BOYS      207 

over  at  Len's  when  they  passed  Grand  River, 
for  a  word  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  He  was  the 
fount  of  gossip  and  advice. 

"  Folks  around  here  have  elected  me  to  be 
justice  of  peace  three  times  in  the  kst  eight 
years,"  drawled  Len,  "  but  I  swear  I  never  get 
time  to  go  down  to  Plaquemine  and  qualify. 
Still  " — he  added  reflectively — "  folks  go  right 
on  electing  me.  Ain't  a  whole  lot  of  justice  busi 
ness  here  anyhow.  I  just  tell  'em  what's  what 
— and  they  say  it's  all  right!" 

"  If  Len'd  take  care  of  the  bees  and  trim  the 
vines  away  from  this  house  and  the  hives,  we'd 
have  a  nice  place  and  make  an  easy  living,"  said 
Mrs.  Len.  "  But  it's  river  and  boats,  boats  and 
river,  with  these  Waterhouse  boys.  They  were 
well  named.  Lands,  if  all  these  lakes  and 
bayous  in  forty  miles  dried  up  and  there  wasn't 
any  rain  for  a  year,  I  couldn't  send  one  of  these 
men  folks  out  to  the  woodpile  without  him  com 
ing  back  with  wet  feet.  Look  at  that  boy  of 
mine  out  there  sailing  a  home-made  pirogue  in 
that  puddle!  And  look  at  them  chickens  going 


208     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

to  roost — why,  even  a  Waterhouse  chicken  has 
to  scratch  in  mud! " 

We  laughed.  The  Waterhouse  chickens,  in 
deed,  were  diligently  searching  for  waterbugs 
in  the  pools  about  the  coop,  which  was  on  the 
highest  bit  of  land  hereabout.  Len  laughed 
most  of  all  at  this  sally. 

We  went  "  bush-cattin' "  again  the  next  day, 
paddling  our  pirogues  after  Len  into  the 
flooded  woods  where  he  had  six-foot  lines  tied 
to  a  long  run  of  trees  and  shrubs,  baited  with 
shrimp  caught  under  the  water  lilies.  Len  dis 
covered  four  catfish  on  his  bush  lines — one  a 
twenty-eight  pounder.  Also  in  his  fyke  nets  we 
found  five  fine  gaspergou,  and  Len  was  at  peace 
with  all  the  world.  We  would  have  a  big  'Gou 
a  la  Creole  to-night  and  he  would  sell  the  rest 
of  his  fish  to  the  next  trade  boat  for  five  cents  a 
pound. 

We  slept  peacefully  under  our  mosquito  bars 
on  the  old  "  sto' "  gallerie,  the  fragrance  of  the 
honeysuckle  in  our  nostrils  night  long.  I  was 
awakened  by  the  discontented  goats  out  in  the 


A  terrapin  hunter  and  his  "turtle  dogs"  on  Barataria  Bay. 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS      209 

lot  trying  to  butt  down  the  door  of  the  "  big 
coop  "  where  our  outfit  was  stored.  Hen  later 
went  out  to  see  if  the  brutes  had  really  gotten 
in,  and  was  promptly  chased  out — and  the  fig 
ure  he  cut  galloping  for  the  fence  through  the 
water  pools  with  a  big  black  billy  in  full  charge 
after  him,  both  splashing  water  tree  high,  was 
diverting — except  to  Hen. 

That  day  a  big  dredge  boat  came  down  Grand 
River  and  after  much  excitement  and  trouble 
was  moored  by  the  landing.  The  river  ran  deep 
and  swift  and  the  crew  was  inexperienced,  it 
seemed.  And  Len  was  in  a  dilemma.  He  had 
promised  to  board  this  crew  on  its  stop-over, 
but  had  forgotten  all  about  it,  and  now  his  wife 
was  sick  abed. 

"  And  here  seven  big  husky  swampers  pile  in 
on  me  and  I  ain't  got  a  thing  in  the  house!" 
confided  Len  to  us.  "  What's  more,  I  can't 
cook!" 

We  made  some  inquiries.  The  "  drudge " 
men  would  be  sore,  Len  added,  and  he  just 
couldn't  turn  anybody  away.  He  consulted 


210    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

with  his  wife,  but  she  had  no  solution.  Hen 
and  I  had  a  consultation  also,  and  then  we  went 
to  Len  sitting  dismally  on  the  gallerie  watching 
the  "  drudge "  crew  profanely  struggle  with 
Grand  River. 

"  Len,  my  partner  Hen  is  the  best  hand  at 
chicken  Maryland  style  that  ever  was,"  I  said, 
"  and  I  can  make  biscuit  Cajun  style  that  are 
some  biscuit,  if  I  do  say  it.  And  you  get  a 
wiggle  on  you  and  peel  some  potatoes  and  clean 
some  cats  and  I'll  make  a  cou'bouillion  like 
Felix  Landry  taught  me  over  on  Lake  False 
Point,  and  we'll  give  that  dredge-boat  crew  the 
feed  of  their  lives." 

Len  looked  up  hopefully.     "You  will?" 

"  We  sure  will — for  the  honor  of  Whiskey 
Bay!" 

And  the  way  we  worked  the  next  hour  was 
a  credit  to  Whiskey  Bay  and  all  the  region 
round  about.  We  sat  those  seven  men  down  to 
a  dinner  that  they  ate  and  ate  and  compli 
mented — and  one  big  swamper — when  he  found 
the  fix  we  were  in — helped  wash  up  the  dishes. 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS     211 

Then  we  all  sat  out  on  the  gallerie  and 
watched  the  swift-flowing  river  and  listened  to 
the  bees — the  poor  wet-footed  Waterhouse  bees 
going  to  bed  in  their  tumbledown  hives  on  stilts 
at  sundown. 

"  You  fellers,  gentlemen,"  drawled  Len, 
"  sure  saved  the  honor  of  Whiskey  Bay.  I'd 
been  some  mortified  if  I  hadn't  been  able  to 
feed  those  guests,  and  maybe  some  of  'em  would 
a-hit  me  a  clout,  too." 

The  "  drudge "  foreman  assured  him  they 
would  have  stuck  him  in  the  mud  head  first 
among  his  goats  and  razorbacks.  We  got  break 
fast  for  the  gang  the  next  morning — more 
chicken,  fish,  biscuit,  and  spuds.  They  hauled 
in  the  check  lines  and  went  down  river  filled  with 
praises  and  provender. 

Then  Len  "  petered  out."  He  sat  on  the  gal 
lerie  and  refused  to  wash  another  dish.  "  Going 
to  take  the  johnboat  and  go  up  to  Loyd's  and 
make  them  wimmen  folks  come  down  here  and 
clean  up." 

So  we    sat   day  long   on   the   gallerie   and 


212     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

watched  the  water  go  by.  I  began  to  under 
stand  why  Len's  neighbors  could  elect  him  three 
times  to  office  and  forgive  him  each  time  when 
he  refused  from  sheer  ineptitude  to  qualify.  We 
had  got  into  the  dolce  far  niente  ourselves.  As 
witness,  we  reached  this  Never-Never  Land  and 
seemed  perfectly  content  apparently  to  sit  on 
the  gallerie  and  smoke  and  stay  and  swap  yarns 
with  Len,  or  rather  listen. 

For  Len  enlarged  further.  He  wanted  to 
become  a  boat  builder.  "  Make  'em  by  the  mile 
and  saw  'em  off  long  as  you  want,"  added  Len. 
He  was  sure  a  sinkboat  to  find  and  raise  the 
lost  drift  logs  for  the  lumber  company  would 
pay.  Or  frogs  for  the  N'Awlyins  market.  Or 
turkeys  in  the  dry  season — if  there  was  one. 
Or  his  old  love — willow  baskets  made  from  the 
osier.  "  The  Gove'ment,"  said  Len,  "  is  mighty 
anxious  for  me  to  try  it.  They  send  me  more 
stuff  than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at  about  basket 
willers.  But  maybe  " — he  reflected — "  they's 
more  money  in  goats.  Or  sometimes  I  think  I'd 
make  a  durn  good  book  agent — or  a  detective." 

So  he  idled  away  life  in  his  sweet-smelling 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS      213 

swamp-garden — a  bit  of  Arcady,  with  the  net 
of  crape  myrtle,  alpha  bush,  jessamine  and 
honeysuckle  woven  over  everything.  His  an 
cient  "  sto5  "  was  a'lamentable  junk  shop  of  old 
tackle,  motor  engine  parts,  seines,  candles,  and 
remnants  of  the  grocery  stock.  Adjoining  was 
a  neat  parlor  with  a  rag  carpet  and  on  the  table 
a  big  mail-order  catalog,  a  Bible,  and  a  book, 
"  Thirty  Years  of  Hell,"  by  "  an  Ex-Priest." 
Also  a  New  Orleans  newspaper  nine  days 
old. 

"  I  keep  right  up  to  the  now"  said  Len 
proudly.  "  When  any  bayou  folks  want  the 
news,  or  the  baby  gets  sick,  or  they  want  legal 
advice,  they  come  down  to  my  place.  Some 
times  I  see  as  many  as  five  boats  tied  up  here — 
come  all  the  way  from  Butte  La  Rose  or  Choc- 
tahoula  or  Happy  Land  to  ask  me  something. 
Yes,  sir,  sometimes  they  passes  'way  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  night  and  holler  me  out  and  ask  some 
thing.  And  sometimes  they  tie  up  to  the  bank 
and  stay  a  month,  sitting  round  here  on  the 
gallerie  and  talking." 

"  Sit  round  and  talk  to  Len  and  cod  the  goat," 


214     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

commented  Mrs.  Len.  "Land,  they  ain't  a 
hustle  in  the  whole  bushel  of  'em!  Some  stay 
a  month  and  some  just  for  coffee,  and  a  body 
like  Len  can't  just  get  no  work  done." 

It  didn't  worry  Len.  We  "  sat  around  the 
gallerie"  considerably,  day  in  and  out,  and  to 
it  came  a  happy-go-lucky  itinerant  lot  of  visit 
ors.  A  broken-down  dredge  engineer,  a  Con 
federate  veteran  and  his  half -Indian  son,  a  man 
from  Texas,  a  scholmaster  down  from  drink,  a 
former  river  pilot — all  knew  Len  Waterhouse, 
each  was  sure  of  welcome,  coffee,  advice. 

For  a  livelihood  they  fished  or  picked  up  drift 
logs.  "  One  way  and  another  we  all  git  on," 
said  Len.  "  Sometimes  I  get  such  a  raft  of 
folks  here  that  I  think  I'll  cut  loose  that  old 
shanty  boat  of  mine  and  bump  on  down  river 
and  see  the  world.  Some  time " 

But  he  won't!  He'll  sit  on  his  gallerie,  roll 
a  cigarette,  stir  his  coffee  as  he  watches  the 
ragged  woods  across  the  yellow  river,  and  com 
plain  amiably  of  life — and  serve  his  neighbors. 
What  more? 


THE  WATEEHOUSE  BOYS     215 

The  fish  boats  will  come  and  trade  groceries 
for  his  catch  and  the  visitors  fetch  the  news. 
The  brown  river  will  bring  its  fullness  to  his 
door;  it  may  be  whimsical  in  delays,  but  one 
way  and  another,  one  will  get  a  living  out  of  it. 
One  can  be  sure  of  that — and  meantime  listen  to 
the  bees  and  tree  frogs  and  smell  the  honey 
suckle. 

When  the  shades  of  night  fell  on  this  sweet 
wild  garden  Len  would  begin  his  complacent 
summing  up  of  the  day  and  the  world.  And 
by  his  side,  as  he  tilted  back  his  feet  on  the  gal- 
lerie  rail,  a  tree  frog  would  tune  up  in  the  rain 
water  trough  that  led  to  the  barrel.  And  the 
more  Len  talked  on,  the  louder  the  tree  frog 
would  sing.  Finally,  when  the  racket  grew  so 
shrill  in  our  ears  that  Hen  and  I  could  no 
longer  hear  what  Len  was  talking  about,  he 
would  turn  and  seize  the  tree  frog  and  throw  it 
off  in  the  grass. 

"  There — Dod-burn  you — don't  you  know 
better  than  to  yell  in  a  man's  ears  when  he's 
talking  to  these  gentlemen?" 


216    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

But  the  next  evening  the  tree  frog  would  be 
back  on  the  rain  barrel  yelling  loud  as  ever. 

Then  there  was  another  old  bullfrog  that  used 
to  live  under  the  split  pirogue  that  served  as  a 
sidewalk,  placed  upside  down,  from  the  gallerie 
to  the  big  cistern.  The  only  time  one  used  this 
was  when  the  weather  was  wet  and  then  it  was 
so  slippery  that  a  man  couldn't  keep  a  footing, 
but  whenever  one  did  step  on  the  shell,  the  big 
bullfrog  boomed  out  menacingly. 

Len,  after  the  peace  of  the  tree  frog's  exile, 
mellowed  a  bit  on  his  family.  "  Here's  my  boy, 
Hubert,  he  does  hate  whiskey.  Some  folks  won 
der  how  we  can  raise  a  smartable  boy  like  him 
down  in  these  swamps,  but  talk  about  city  edu 
cation!  Why,  here  he  grows  clean  and  sweet, 
and  his  mother  teaches  him  to  read  and  rigger. 
He  says  his  prayers  at  night,  and  when  Brother 
Metreve  comes  in  his  gas  boat  once  a  month 
from  Happy  Land,  there  ain't  nobody  listens 
to  the  Word  like  my  boy  Hubert.  He  feels  bad 
because  old  Fitzande's  kids  don't  pray,  and  I 
heard  him  once  just  beg  Francois  to  say  a 


THE  WATEBHOUSE  BOYS      217 

prayer    in    Cajun.      '  I    guess,'    says    Hubert, 
'  that  God  knows  some  Cajun.' " 

Hubert,  a  brown-eyed,  gentle  lad,  like  all 
these  woods  youngsters,  carried  in  his  stove 
wood,  chased  the  pigs  out  of  the  house  lot,  and 
sailed  his  little  self-made  boats  on  the  flood 
ponds.  My  heart  went  out  to  him  as  to  all  these 
brave,  simple,  and  efficient  children  of  the  wil 
derness.  Hubert  knew  all  the  Grand  River 
boats — he  could  tell  miles  away  by  the  exhaust 
or  the  whistle  just  whether  it  was  the  Queenie 
or  the  River  Belle,  and  what  cargo  she  would 
likely  carry.  He  was  a  slim  young  nimrod.  In 
the  dried  swamps  of  autumn  he  and  Len  hunted 
deer  and  squirrel,  and  in  the  wintei  the  ducks 
and  water  fowl  to  ship  out  to  the  New  Orleans 
markets.  Then  in  the  spring,  when  the  sun 
creeps  high  over  the  land  and  sends  the  melted 
snows  down  the  Mississippi  to  crash  through  the 
Red  and  Atchafalaya,  short-cutting  to  the  sea, 
Len  and  his  boy  Hubert  bush-catted  and  ran 
the  drift  logs  until  the  July  slackening  of  the 
water  came,  leaving  the  brown  mud  incrusta- 


218     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

tions  on  tree  and  vine.  Then  the  fish  die,  and 
the  mosquitoes  are  ravenous,  and  the  boats  do 
not  come  to  upper  Grand  River  until  the 
dreamy  dry  autumn  brings  the  trapping  and 
the  hunting  once  more. 

So  goes  the  life  of  the  South  woods,  under 
the  ever-soft  skies  of  Louisiana.  Coffee,  cigar 
ettes,  a  trifle  of  danger  along  with  the  indolence ; 
a  mosquito  to  slap  in  the  warm  evenings ;  enough 
of  gossip  and  new  faces  to  break  the  monotony 
— and  always,  in  every  heart,  that  easy  antici 
pation  of  better  times;  of  the  days  when  the 
railroad  will  build  a  cut-off  through  the  upper 
swamps  and  have  a  station  only  nine  miles  away; 
of  the  promise  that  the  Plaquemine  locks  will 
be  enlarged  so  that  the  Red  River  packets  will 
come  down  to  the  Grand,  and  then  "Up  In 
Back  "  to  the  plantation  country.  "  Some  day!  " 
said  the  bayou  folk  with  satisfaction.  Also  there 
are  some  who  believe  that  "  some  day  "  the  en 
tire  mighty  Mississippi  will  grind  its  way  down 
the  Atchtfalaya  cut-off  to  the  Gulf  and  leave 
New  Orleans  stranded! 

Len,  too,  added  gossip  of  his  neighbors  along 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS     219 

with  affairs  of  the  time.  There  was  Dick  Harp, 
a  "  comical  cuss,"  who  came  down  the  river  one 
night  pretending  to  be  the  State  inspector  of 
seines  and  nets,  yelling  to  all  the  camps  and 
shanty-boats :  "  Get  out  your  seines.  I'm  com 
ing  to  look  at  the  size  of  your  meshes !  " 

Now  there  wasn't  a  fisher  that  conformed  to 
the  legal  size  mesh,  so  every  Cajun  dropped  his 
coffee  and  cigarettes,  rushed  to  his  seines,  and 
hid  them  in  the  deep  swamp  or  sunk  them  in  the 
bayous.  They  kept  them  hidden  a  week  until 
they  discovered  the  "inspector"  was  Dick 
Harp. 

"  Some  of  these  swampers  would  a-killed 
Dick  if  he'd  come  back  that  spring,"  said 
Len. 

Dick  was  also  the  "  cuss  "  who — being  a  part 
ner  in  a  lumber  concern  that  hired  two  civil 
engineers  to  do  some  work  down  in  the  swamps 
— was  offered  a  dollar  by  one  of  these  city  chaps 
to  take  him  out  to  the  canal  when  the  task  was 
over.  Dick  had  come  to  camp  rough-dressed 
and  in  his  own  gas  boat,  and  the  engineer  did 
not  recognize  his  own  employer.  "  Old  Dick," 


220    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

said  Len,  "  took  the  dollar  and  brought  the  man 
out  and  never  said  a  word.  Lordy,  and  Dick 
has  enough  money  to  buy  all  the  college  engi 
neers  in  the  hull  gove'ment!" 

Then  there  was  "  Hell  fer  'Lection  "  Blake, 
who  owned  a  steamer  and  hired  a  dredge  to  do 
some  contract  work  down  Belle  River.  "Hell 
fer  'Lection  "  started  to  tow  the  dredge  down 
with  his  steamer,  slammed  the  boat  ashore  on 
a  bar  in  falling  water,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the 
summer  trying  to  dig  his  own  boat  out  with  the 
dredge  instead  of  having  the  dredge  work  for 
him! 

Len  was  chivalrously  inclined  to  the  gentler 
sex.  He  asked  if  Hen  and  I  were  married  and 
seemed  disappointed.  "  And  durn  me  if  your 
hair  ain't  thinner'n  mine,  too.  Well,  you  can't 
always  tell.  You  got  to  eat  a  barrel  of  salt 
with  a  woman  before  you  can  know  her — and 
some  men  don't  like  salt." 

That  last  night  we  talked  late  on  the  gallerie. 
And  long  after  midnight,  when  we  had  turned 
in,  I  was  aroused  by  voices  outside,  to  discover 


THE  WATERHOUSE  BOYS      221 

that  some  swamper  had  come  in  from  his  lonely 
camp  to  consult  Len  about  a  sick  wife.  And 
Len  was  up  "  puttering  "  about  in  the  left-over 
stock  of  drugs  and  patent  medicines  of  his  de 
funct  general  store.  They  measured  and  tasted 
and  discussed  and  Len  was  all  eagerness  to  help. 
He  sent  the  man  away  with  advice  called  out 
long  after  the  swamper  was  out  on  the  dark 
river.  "  Give  her  a  hull  spoonful  every  hour 
and  soak  her  feet  in  the  mustard,  and  if  she 
don't  come  'round  hard  a-port  and  answer  the 
helm,  we'll  mix  up  a  little  something  else  to- 
morry!" 

Good  old  Len! 

He  was  visibly  perturbed  when  we  told  him 
that  we  would  go  on  down  Grand  River  that 
day. 

"  Hate  to  see  you  go.  Folks  most  generally 
stay  round  a  month  when  they  strike  my  place, 
go's  we  can  have  a  little  talk.  I  do  like  to  meet 
folks  'at  come  right  out  of  the  world." 

We  assured  Len  our  regard  was  mutual;  and 
then,  after  minute  instructions  as  to  how  we 


222     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

should  navigate  some  of  the  quick  water  below 
in  Grand  River,  and  where  we  should  find  camps 
in  the  wild  country  around  Bay  Natchez,  see 
ing  we  were  fools  enough  to  travel  that  way  in 
a  pirogue,  we  set  off. 

Len  stood  on  his  gallerie  and  shouted  us  God 
speed.  "Any  time  you  want  to  make  a  fool  of 
yourself  again,  come  back  to  Whiskey  Bay. 
Some  time  you  will — right  back  yere,  raising 
bees  and  married  to  a  swamp  angel ! " 


CHAPTER  XI 

ADRIFT   WITH    THE   FLOATING    GARDENS 

GRAND  RIVER  grew  more  wild  and 
beautiful  all  that  day's  dash  with  the 
current,  narrower,  swifter,  over  its  banks 
and  surging  the  overhanging  branches  of  the 
trees  along  with  it  so  that  the  shores  were  a  con 
tinual  motion  and  glitter  of  kaleidoscopic  green 
and  gray — cypress  and  oak  in  the  background, 
with  before  them  the  young  willow  and  hack- 
berry.  We  saw  no  one  from  Waterhouse's  to 
Bayou  Plaquemine,  where  we  encountered  a 
negro  pirogue  hunter  with  eighteen  black  squir 
rels,  and  then  discovered  a  store  on  the  bayou 
bank.  This  was  the  first  land  we  had  seen  all 
day.  We  traveled  on  again  into  the  woods  and 
made  a  fine  camp  in  the  willows  six  miles  below. 
The  weather  had  been  so  good  of  late  that  we 

223 


224     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

did  not  put  up  the  silk  tent,  but  rigged  our  mos 
quito-bars  to  lines  from  tree  to  tree,  and  slept 
peacefully  on  our  rubber  cloth  and  blankets. 

Squirrel  jambelaya  for  breakfast — and  pan 
cakes  and  honey  from  our  good  friends  above. 
Then  off,  to  encounter  a  great  rush  of  water 
coming  out  of  Pigeon  Lake  that  danced  us  all 
day  merrily  in  the  midst  of  a  river  now  filled 
with  the  beautiful  floating  hyacinths.  We  were 
twenty-two  miles  in  this  moving  flower-bed  with 
out  once  being  able  to  make  a  landing.  Not 
that  we  tried — it  was  too  splendid  and  novel  a 
trip.  We  sat  back  lazily  and  smoked  while  the 
traveling  garden  bore  us  on. 

"  Where,"  asked  Hen  somnolently,  "  are  we 
going? " 

"  I  don't  know.  Len  said  there  was  a  big 
camp  down  on  Belle  River,  where  the  chaps 
would  be  glad  to  see  us." 

"Where's  Belle  River?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly.  Len  said  it  was 
down  somewhere  where  there  was  a  big  camp, 
where  the  chaps " 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     225 

"  Oh,"  said  Hen,  "  you  don't  know  where 
you're  going! " 

"  Neither  do  you,"  I  retorted,  and  the  sun 
being  fine  and  the  morning  fair,  we  couldn't 
see  much  use  of  worrying  about  it. 

If  you  will  take  a  map  of  detail  you  will  see 
the  absolute  uselessness  of  worrying.  The 
Grand  River  in  springtime  jets  out  of  the 
Atchafalaya,  which  spouts  out  of  the  swollen 
side  of  the  Mississippi.  The  Atchafalaya  wan 
ders  down  through  a  dozen  lakes  and  nameless 
bayous  to  the  Gulf,  and  the  Grand  meanders 
its  way  alongside,  with  now  and  then  an  inter 
locking  arm  or  bayou  running  across  to  its 
neighbor,  and  these  streams  flow  in  and  out, 
back  and  forth,  in  a  crazy-patch  fashion  through 
unbroken  forests.  The  only  thing  a  fellow  had 
to  guess  right  on  was  to  stick  to  Grand  River 
and  not  be  deceived  by  these  cross  bayous,  which 
would  whirl  him  off  into  the  flooded  and  unpeo 
pled  north  shores  of  Grand  Lake,  which  is  not 
made  for  pirogue-running,  as  we  remembered 
well. 


226    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

But  Hen  and  I  never  gave  it  a  thought.  We 
"  lazed  "  all  that  day  in  the  lily  drift,  only  work 
ing  once  when  we  fought  a  way  to  shore  to  where 
a  tiny  f armlet  offered  a  chance  to  buy  eggs.  Then 
a  few  miles  below  we  found  a  small  channel 
winding  off  northward  through  very  tall  cy 
press.  That  interested  us.  We  knew  vaguely 
that  all  the  water  ought  to  run  southeasterly  to 
the  Gulf  fifty  or  seventy  miles  away.  But  this 
quiet  baby  stream,  disappearing  under  the 
gloomy  trees,  showing  clear  water,  was  entic 
ing.  Without  any  conference  we  turned  into 
it.  It  must  go  somewhere.  Maybe  to  the  long- 
sought  Fountain.  Who  knew? 

We  had  a  week's  grub — why  care?  Anyhow, 
we  floated  off  and  into  the  heart  of  the  biggest 
virgin  cypress  we  had  ever  seen.  Astonished  and 
delighted  with  all  this  primal  forest,  we  paddled 
on  half  an  hour,  and  just  at  sunset  we  came  out 
suddenly  into  a  sedgy  pool  that  opened  on  a 
quiet  lake  reflecting  the  sunset,  while  across,  not 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  uprose  the  sheer,  grim 
gray  of  the  mighty  cypress  once  more.  Never 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     22T 

had  we  come  on  a  more  beautiful  spot  than  that 
silent,  reed-lined  mirror  with  the  towering  trees 
about.  We  paddled  across  the  lake,  wondering 
if  it  had  an  outlet.  Then  we  saw  a  break  in 
the  lower  end,  a  bit  of  marsh,  and  the  distant 
blue  of  the  evening  woods.  We  headed  for  this, 
threaded  a  lagoon  all  but  lily-choked,  and  found 
a  stream  flowing  on  as  placid  and  clear  as  if 
the  roaring  yellow  of  the  upper  river  floods  had 
never  found  it.  As  indeed  they  had  not.  We 
were  in  the  upper  head  of  Bay  Natchez,  but  did 
not  know  it.  We  paddled  on  for  an  hour,  the 
cypress  withdrawing  itself  until  it  was  again  the 
gray  iron  wall,  while  between  was  the  soft  green 
of  willowed  ridges,  acres  of  purple  lilies,  bright 
grasses,  and  reflecting  pools.  We  paddled  down 
the  stream,  warily  seeking  the  main  channel,  for 
the  spot  did  not  offer  a  camp.  And  after  some 
miles  of  this  we  rounded  a  marshy  bank  to  dis 
cover  ourselves  once  more  in  the  silent  and  deep- 
flowing  Grand  River,  the  woods  on  either  side 
and  the  unending  drift  of  the  hyacinths  to  the 
sea. 


228    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

It  was  dark  by  now.  We  battled  with  the 
flood  and  the  flowers  some  time  before  we  could 
make  a  landing,  and  at  that  were  forced  ashore 
almost  a  mile  below  the  spot  we  had  first  picked 
out.  It  was  amazing  where  all  the  lilies  came 
from.  The  floods  must  be  pushing  them  out  of 
every  swamp  from  Red  River  to  the  Gulf.  But 
we  got  to  land  at  last  where  neither  lilies  nor 
drift  logs  impeded  and  made  a  hasty  camp, 
broiled  some  bacon,  made  tea,  and  rolled  in  our 
blankets.  We  had  put  the  tent  up  here,  for  a 
storm  was  brewing  in  the  southwest,  and  besides 
we  had  an  idea  of  looking  about  this  wild  bit  of 
woods  and  water. 

A  Sunday  of  amazing  glory  awaited.  I 
rather  think  of  all  the  four  months'  knocking 
about,  that  camp  below  Bay  Natchez  was  the 
best.  We  saw  no  one  in  two  days.  And  the 
life  of  the  woods  and  water  was  varied  and  un 
usual.  The  trees  were  filled  with  songsters, 
bright-hued  and  flitting,  making  music  all  the 
day,  and  out  over  the  river  black  and  snowy 
herons  floated.  Loons,  ducks,  and  yellow-limbed 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     229 

gallinules  were  circling  above  the  sedgy  flat 
across  from  us,  and  a  white  egret  sailed  over 
the  lily  drift.  And  as  we  proceeded  with  the 
breakfast-getting,  a  white-headed  eagle  floated 
above  us,  looking  down  with  sharp,  flitting  eyes 
to  our  humble  camp,  as  if  questioning  the  advis 
ability  of  allowing  us  to  stay. 

After  a  contenting  meal  and  leisurely  smoke 
we  paddled  out  on  the  river  to  look  about  the 
bend.  The  curving  forest  hid  all  view  below 
us.  The  giant  gars  were  splashing  the  water 
under  the  lily  drift.  The  channel  here  flowed 
much  easier  and  had  lost  its  yellow,  angry  hue 
of  the  flood  water.  Along  our  shore,  in  the 
bend,  where  the  slower  water  from  Bay  Natchez 
had  the  right  of  way,  it  was  even  clear  and  dark 
with  the  peculiar  swamp  luster  which  we  had 
noticed  often  in  the  untouched  deep  swamp. 
And  for  miles  below  Bay  Natchez,  which  is 
merely  a  huge  pocket  of  the  drainage  flow  from 
the  rivers  above,  we  found  the  black  water  and 
the  "  white  water,"  as  the  natives  call  the  flood, 
running  side  by  side. 


230    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

We  went  back  to  camp,  having  much  diffi 
culty  with  the  lilies  in  reaching  shore.  In  an 
hour  the  breeze  sprang  up  and  the  rest  of  the 
day  we  were  hopelessly  blocked  in.  The  water 
plants  packed  so  tightly  along  the  bank  that  it 
took  some  effort  to  part  them  when  we  wanted 
to  dip  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  stream. 
Sunday,  as  usual,  was  washday,  and  soon  we 
had  every  dud  in  camp  hanging  to  the  bushes, 
while  we  lolled  about  in  an  Edenic  comfort. 

"And  not  an  Eve  in  forty  miles,  thank 
Heaven,"  Hen  said  contentedly.  "  It's  great!  " 

So  we  smoked  and  idled.  And  as  fine  luek 
fell  we  discovered  a  trim  little  Mobilian  turtle 
among  the  driftwood  and  had  him  cleaned  and 
in  a  pot  in  no  time.  He  made  a  great  stew  with 
tomatoes  (canned,  of  course),  onions,  potatoes, 
bacon,  and  a  bit  of  garlic  and  thyme.  And  as 
we  cooked  this  turtle  contentedly  we  found  an 
other  and  put  him  in  the  pirogue,  where  we 
carried  him  for  the  next  week  scratching  around 
under  the  duffles  and  poking  his  red-and-striped 
head  among  the  canned  goods  in  a  sort  of  in- 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     231 

jured  way,  as  if  it  was  a  mean  trick  to  shut 
him  among  all  these  edibles  without  a  can- 
opener. 

The  wind  shifted  a  point  or  two  and  began  to 
move  the  four-acre  patch  of  hyacinths  out  of 
our  cove  in  the  afternoon.  Then  we  went  fish 
ing,  still  in  our  state  of  e  pluribus  unum,  as  Hen 
had  it.  What  was  the  use  of  clothes,  anyhow? 
We  were  astonished  at  the  lack  of  mosquitoes — 
and  also  at  the  lack  of  fish.  Privately  I  was 
glad — never  did  like  to  fish  much.  Even  Hen, 
with  all  his  silver-tipped  outfit,  lolling  in  the  end 
of  the  canoe  without  a  stitch  on  his  hide,  a  cig 
arette  in  his  mouth,  seemed  pleased  that  the  fish 
didn't  bother  us.  We  had  grown  shiftless,  I'll 
admit.  But  it  seemed  good.  Even  a  fellow's 
tobacco  down  in  this  Cajun  country  was  sort 
of  easy-going  and  fritter-minded,  not  caring 
whether  it  burned  or  not. 

The  egrets  —  snowy-plumed  and  stately — 
were  flying  up  the  silent  river.  A  great  gray 
heron  stood  on  one  leg  across  from  us  on  a  log, 
reflected  perfectly  in  the  slow-shifting  mirror. 


232    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

And  long  angles  of  ducks  went  above  to  their 
feeding-ground  in  the  prairie  which  we  could  see 
to  the  west  below  the  cypress  wall.  As  soon  as 
Hen  and  I  could  reasonably  excuse  each  other 
from  fishing  we  went  ashore,  put  on  some 
clothes,  and  built  a  roaring  bonfire,  for  the  May 
night  was  cool.  We  sang  lullabies  to  each  other 
until  nine  and  then  turned  in  the  blankets,  first 
making  our  usual  snake-inspection  when  we 
stayed  more  than  one  night  in  a  spot.  Not  a 
serpent  in  our  Eden. 

"Bully!"  murmured  Hen.  "This  spot  is 
right-o.  Let's  stay  till  we're  out  of  grub!" 

But  we  didn't  get  through  that  night  without 
incident.  About  midnight,  when  we  were  lost 
to  the  world,  one  of  those  sudden,  ripping  gales 
hit  us  and  for  an  hour  the  air  was  filled  with 
blown  twigs  and  moss,  with  now  and  then  a  limb 
from  one  of  the  cypress  crashing  down  near  us. 
We  lay  in  our  blankets,  watching  the  incessant 
bursts  of  lightning  through  the  bellying  walls 
of  the  tent.  Several  times  it  lifted  wildly  in  the 
gusts  and  then — down  it  came! 


bJC 

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THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     233 

[With  it  came  the  rain.  We  lay  there  under 
the  clammy  silk  and  discussed  the  weather  far 
from  amicably.  It  was  two  o'clock  before  the 
storm  was  over,  and  then  we  had  to  get  out 
shiveringly  and  draw  the  tent  back  on  its  pegs, 
slopping  around  in  the  water  pools  and  inci 
dentally  dragging  our  blankets  into  the  mud. 
But  that  was  a  casual  incident.  When  we 
crawled  out  again  the  day  was  clear  and  a  cool 
norther  was  blowing — very  cold,  indeed,  for  the 
tenth  of  May  in  Louisiana. 

We  felt  so  chilled  in  the  shades  of  the  great 
wet  trees  that  I  proposed  breaking  camp  and 
going  on  down  this  uninhabited  river.  We  got 
away  at  ten  o'clock,  pushing  the  canoe  out  into 
a  singing,  creaking  lily  field  and  being  swept 
away  at  once  with  it  on  the  norther. 

A  mile  below  we  got  ashore  on  a  reedy  bank 
and  spent  an  ineffectual  hour  trying  to  photo 
graph  the  egrets  and  loggerhead  turtles  about 
the  pools.  But  they  were  too  wild,  and  Hen 
had  also  his  usual  trouble  with  that  camera.  It 
was,  as  I  had  remarked  before,  endowed  with 


234    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

so  many  stops,  plugs,  throttles,  timers,  sema 
phore  signals,  and  nobody  knows  what  else  that 
by  the  time  all  these  were  ready  and  Hen  had 
studied  up  his  literature  to  see  about  the  time 
and  lighting  and  the  temperature  and  the  price 
of  wheat  at  Duluth,  the  blamed  bird  or  wood- 
chuck  or  whatever  it  was  had  got  tired  of  pos 
ing  and  had  gone  off.  Then  Hen  invariably 
"accused  me  of  scaring  it  away. 

Then  we  had  to  ungear  that  mysterious  cam 
era  and  repack  it,  and  paddle  down  this  aston 
ishingly  beautiful  and  lonely  river.  As  we 
looked  ahead  over  the  nearer  shore  we  sa"w 
higher  ridges  apparently,  a  fine  hill  with  a 
smiling  countryside  stretched  beneath. 

It  was  that  old  fascinating  illusion  of  Wie 
swamps — a  vista  of  marsh  appearing  to  be  gol 
den  stubble,  a  line  of  mangroves  like  a  well- 
ordered  hedge  about  a  decent  farm  lot  and  bacK 
of  it  the  pasture  slopes  of  New  England  or 
Wisconsin — it  was  incredible  that  we  were  look 
ing  upon  nothing  but  woods,  and  woods  whose 
feet  were  deep  in  the  black  cypress  water! 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     235 

But  a  few  miles  on  we  were  startled  by  the 
shrill  yelp  of  a  whistle  far  in  the  forest. 

"Forgey's  camp,"  said  Hen;  "it's  time  we 
were  near  it." 

But  it  was  not.  We  came  about  a  bend  to 
a  "  pullboat,"  alongside  of  which  was  a  quarter- 
boat  with  a  good-natured  darky  poking  his  head 
from  the  kitchen  to  greet  us.  We  climbed  up 
and  met  the  boss  and  the  bookkeeper.  It  was 
Van  Norman's  camp,  and  the  pullboat  engine 
was  "  snaking  "  the  big  cypress  out  of  a  cutting 
a  mile  away  by  means  of  a  steel  cable  that  ran 
up  the  "road"  through  the  forest.  We  were 
made  welcome,  dined  with  the  hospitable  crew, 
engineer,  boss,  clerk,  and  other  few  white  men 
of  the  camp.  Out  of  the  woods  poured  a  wet 
and  dirty  army  of  swampers  at  noon. 

Van  Norman  was  proud  of  his  camp  and 
gang.  He  insisted  on  taking  us  up  the  pull- 
boat  road  after  the  meal,  but  I  decided  to  go 
hunting  in  a  light  "  runnin5  pirogue "  in  the 
swamp.  Hen  went  back  to  the  "  slashin',"  and 
had  a  most  diverting  time  trying  to  keep  dry 


236     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

by  jumping  from  log  to  log  on  the  pullboat 
road.  He  gave  it  up  after  a  while  and  went  in 
as  the  swampers  go — regardless  of  the  water. 
I  went  in  far  enough  to  get  a  sense  of  the  for 
lorn  aspect  of  the  forest  after  the  "  falling 
crew"  is  through  with  it — the  gigantic  cypress 
thrown  in  every  direction  and  the  skinned  young 
saplings  struggling  up  through  the  wreck  from 
the  water. 

Van  Norman  insisted  that  we  occupy  the 
quarterboat  with  his  white  men,  but  we  pre 
ferred  to  make  camp,  so  at  dusk  we  dropped 
down  stream  to  a  fine  grove  of  oaks  on  the  high 
est  bit  of  land  we  had  seen  in  weeks — quite  six 
feet  above  the  river.  Latanier  palms,  hack- 
berry,  brilliant  young  maples  grew  about  the 
point,  while  back  of  us  was  a  perfect  mat  of 
blackberry  vines. 

We  fell  on  them  before  breakfast  with  gusto. 
"Let's  stay  a  week!"  said  Hen.  "Blackberry 
smash  for  lunch  and  blackberry  pie  for  dinner. 
And  listen  to  the  birds  sing!  Every  blamed 
one  of  'em  is  probably  good  to  eat ! " 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     237 

We  had  guests  for  breakfast — two  shy  young 
Creoles  who  were  paddling  from  Forked  Horn 
Bayou,  they  said.  They  could  not  talk  much 
English,  but  when  we  motioned  to  the  coffee 
they  accepted  with  enthusiasm.  Then  along 
came  young  Keller,  the  bookkeeper,  just  to  see 
how  we  were  making  out  and  to  ask  us  up  to 
Van  Norman's  to  dine.  We  all  made  coffee 
again  and  drank  it  about  the  coals — three  times 
since  we  got  out  of  bed! 

Again,  ye  neurasthenics,  how  about  five  cups 
of  coffee  before  ten  A.M.?  Before  we  came  in 
the  big  woods  and  forgot  the  banal  towns,  one 
brew  of  the  stuff  would  have  demoralized  me. 
And  this  was  coffee — not  the  boiled  Northern 
concoction.  We  could  drip  it  now  with  any 
wandering  hunter  of  the  swamps  and  earn  his 
commendation. 

We  went  fishing  in  the  afternoon — lazily. 
And  the  fish  bit  lazily,  not  seeming  to  care 
whether  they  got  hooked  or  not.  We  paddled 
to  the  pullboat,  dined  with  the  boys  and  stayed 
until  ten  o'clock.  Then  we  pulled  away  from 


238    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

the  camp,  dropped  easily  down  river  in  the  star 
light,  well  pleased  with  ourselves,  until  Hen 
suddenly  shifted,  looked  around  at  me,  and 
remarked: 

"  By  the  way,  do  you  know  where  our  tent 
is?" 

I  didn't.  It  dawned  on  us  that  we  had  been 
shot  by  the  current  into  the  narrowing  part  of 
the  river  where  the  great  trees  overhung,  mak 
ing  an  impenetrable  darkness.  And  somewhere 
along  here  we  must  find  that  camp!  We  could 
see  nothing,  except  now  and  then  the  dim  top 
of  a  tree  clump  against  the  stars,  and  we  could 
hear  the  gurgle  and  whisper  of  the  river  under 
the  overhanging  boughs.  We  didn't  care  par 
ticularly  about  being  capsized  on  these  current- 
swept  limbs. 

"  Gone  too  far,"  said  Hen,  and  after  a  con 
sultation  we  came  about  and  paddled  up.  We 
racked  our  brains  to  think  of  some  distinguish 
ing  mark  by  the  tent — and  couldn't. 

"  There  was  a  clump  of  palms  right  back  of 
us,"  I  murmured,  "  and  a  big  oak " 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     239 

"  Lot  of  good  that  is!  Can  you  see  a  thing?  " 
Then  Hen  sniffed— "  Ha!" 

"Ha— what?" 

"I  have  it.    I  smell  it!" 

"Smell  what?" 

"  Pie ! — camp — home!  ** 

"Darned  if  you  do!" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  That  blackberry  pie  that  drib 
bled  so — and  you  laid  it  on  the  big  stump  right 
by  the  water!  Hard-a-starboard !  Dig!" 

Now  did  two  lost  woodsmen  ever  retrieve 
themselves  with  a  blackberry  pie?  We  did.  I 
told  you  we  would  tell  you  something  you  never 
heard  of  before.  In  the  curriculum  of  wood 
craft,  find  a  place  for  blackberry  pie.  Hen 
could  nose  his  way  around  the  world  in  the  wake 
of  a  blackberry  pie.  In  ten  minutes  we  were 
ashore,  struggling  through  brush,  feeling  about, 
striking  matches  and — then  I  rammed  my  fist 
square  down  into  that  blackberry  pie.  Next 
morning  it  was  a  total  wreck,  with  many  ants 
trying  to  claim  salvage  on  it. 

Hen  went  back  to  the  pullboat  to  try  for 


240    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

more  pictures  of  Van  Norman's  crew.  I  bor 
rowed  Keller's  "  runnin'  pirogue "  and  went 
after  squirrels  down  the  river.  I  pumped  one 
load  of  No.  7  at  a  big  brown  eagle  and  he 
merely  smiled  down  at  me.  Here  and  there,  on 
the  gray  bark  of  the  trees,  a  squirrel  dodged 
about.  I  had  to  pot  them  as  the  canoe  shot  by 
in  that  dancing  current.  Let  me  tell  you,  shoot 
ing  squirrels  from  a  pirogue  calls  for  some  deli 
cacy  of  judgment.  The  kick  of  the  gun  will 
upset  as  ticklish  a  bit  of  wood  as  I  was  in  unless 
one  has  his  shot  figured  to  a  nicety.  You  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  squirrel  swinging  from  limb  to 
limb  up  in  the  filigree  of  green  against  the  light, 
you  swing  hard  on  the  paddle  with  your  right 
hand,  bringing  the  pirogue  hard  about,  raising 
the  gun  with  your  left  as  you  come  bow-on  with 
the  quarry.  Then — quick  or  never!  You  drop 
the  paddle,  brace  your  knees  on  the  coaming, 
swing  your  shoulders  tensely  back,  bring  the 
gun  up,  find  your  squirrel,  and  shoot  just  as 
the  sight  comes  squarely  over  the  pirogue's  nose. 
I  tried  one  broadside  shot  and  nearly  went  over 


Site  of  Joan  LaFitte's  fort  at  Grand  Tcrrc. 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     241 

in  that  swift  water.  And  once  over  I  never 
could  have  got  back  to  camp  until  they  came  to 
look  for  me,  hanging  to  some  half-submerged 
tree. 

I  managed  to  bag  three  squirrels,  having  no 
end  of  difficulty  in  finding  them,  for  they 
dropped  plump  down  in  the  water  through  a 
magnificent  tangle  of  vines  and  bamboo  brier. 
But  it  was  novel  and  exhilarating  sport,  giving 
one  a  thrill  worthy  of  bigger  game,  for  one  was 
fighting  every  minute  against  the  treacherous 
boils  and  eddies  sucking  under  the  jungle  banks. 
I  killed  a  huge  fish-hawk  as  I  paddled  back, 
catching  it  so  fairly  above  me  that  it  fell  straight 
down,  landed  on  my  knees,  and  sat  there  glaring 
up.  I  heard  a  shout  of  laughter  at  this,  and 
discovered  a  Cajun  hunter  balancing  in  his  pi 
rogue,  holding  to  the  twig  of  a  tree,  and  look 
ing  at  me. 

"  Das  good! "  he  cried.  " But,  man,  don'  yo' 
try  sooch  fancy  shoots  out-a  dat  leetle  coffin! 
No  Yankee  can  run  dat  pirogue ! " 

I  was  some  set  up  when  I  got  back  to  Van 


242     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Norman's  to  discover  that  the  boys  had  given 
me  the  most  treacherous  bit  of  cypress  shell  in 
the  camp — and  thought  I  wouldn't  dare  shoot 
from  it.  I  didn't  tell  them  of  the  practice  I'd 
had  pirogue  hunting  with  Florion  Landry. 

Mangy,  the  colored  cook,  insisted  on  stewing 
that  fish-hawk  for  us,  but  we  declined.  So  he 
served  it  to  the  black  hands.  They  said  it  was 
great.  Maybe,  but  it  didn't  look  so.  I'd  already 
eaten  mink  fricassee  and  alligator  gar  and  shark 
meat,  but  somehow  that  stewed  hawk  didn't  re 
semble  anything  that  we  thought  would  do  our 
hair  or  dyspepsia  any  good. 

"  Mangy,"  said  Hen,  "  give  it  to  the  boys 
with  our  blessing.  I'm  feeling  too  fine  now  to 
experiment  with  hawk  stew — we'll  be  mighty 
generous,  Mangy,  and  let  you  have  all  of  it." 

Thirty  miles  below  we  stopped  at  Forgey's 
Belle  River  camp. 

Big  Captain  Forgey  gave  us  a  genial  wel 
come.  He  had  heard  two  strangers  were  headed 
his  way  from  Len  Waterhouse's,  the  news 
coming  in  that  mysterious  and  swift  channel  by 
which  gossip  travels  in  the  wilderness. 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     243 

Forgey's  was  the  "  big  model  camp  "  of  the 
Grand  Lake  country.  Every  building  and 
fence  was  whitewashed  and  no  jumble  of  dis 
carded  log  machinery  was  about.  "  Things  go 
here  like  a  clock,"  said  the  Captain,  "  and  I  got 
the  best  crew,  white  and  black,  in  the  big  woods. 
Come  in  and  stay  a  couple  of  weeks  and  see  for 
yourself." 

That  was  the  usual  way.  If  you  stayed  less 
than  two  weeks  the  woodsmen  thought  you  must 
be  peeved  about  something. 

This  was  a  "skidder  camp,"  and  the  man 
agers  boasted  that  "  skidding  "  was  a  better  way 
to  get  the  timber  out  of  the  deep  swamp  than 
"  pullboating."  The  place  where  the  logs  were 
cut  was  four  miles  "  up  in  back."  A  miniature 
railroad  track  led  off  across  the  swamp  water  to 
this  cutting.  The  next  day,  after  a  pleasant 
night's  chat  in  the  company's  store  and  a  sleep 
in  real  beds  with  real  sheets  in  the  rooms  above, 
we  were  taken  out  to  the  "  slashin' "  where  the 
eighty  black  men  of  the  outfit  worked. 

The  little  wood-burning  engine,  with  us  sit 
ting  on  the  water  tank,  drawing  a  rattling  line 


244    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

of  log  trucks  up  the  crazy  track,  went  off  in  the 
most  dismal  bit  of  forest  we  had  seen.  Up  at 
the  "  slashin' "  the  trees  had  been  "  deaded  "  a 
year  or  more  and  the  vast  stretch  was  lifeless 
and  grim  standing  out  of  the  black  water.  Here 
and  there  the  "  fallers,"  working  in  pairs,  were 
attacking  the  cypress;  and  let  me  say  that  one 
of  the  finest  things  we  saw  was  a  huge  black 
man,  naked  to  the  waist,  his  back  and  biceps 
shining  with  the  sweat,  standing  with  one  foot 
in  his  pirogue  and  the  other  holding  by  the  toes 
in  a  notch  of  the  tree,  while  he  hewed  the  great 
trunk  down.  There's  a  trick! 

When  the  tree  was  ready  to  fall,  the  chopper 
dropped  back  in  his  canoe  and  with  a  single 
backward  shoot  took  himself  far  out  of  danger 
as  the  big  trunk  struck  the  water  and  rebounded 
high  in  the  air. 

The  swamp  niggers  were  a  picturesque  lot, 
more  independent  than  the  plantation  darkies, 
moving  about  with  an  insolent  swagger  at  the 
store,  buying  toothpick  shoes  and  high-priced 
clothes  to  wear  down  to  Mawgan  City  to  see 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     245 

their  women.  But  they  stood  apart  for  the  big 
Captain,  who  knocked  one  of  them  down  when 
he  objected  to  giving  up  his  seat  in  the  boat  to 
a  white  man.  It  is  a  rough  man's  world,  the 
Louisiana  cypress  swamps. 

Forgey  was  a  Western  type,  a  devil-may-care 
chap  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  the  best 
camp  boss  on  the  river.  He  had  his  own  twenty- 
two-miles-an-hour  motorboat  when  he  wanted  to 
get  down  to  tidewater  at  Morgan  City.  He  was 
proud,  too,  of  the  camp  grub — fresh  eggs,  cow 
milk,  green  peas,  beans,  rice,  potatoes,  cabbage, 
pork  shoulder — nearly  all  raised  by  some  of  his 
old  niggers  on  the  high  spots  around  camp.  Cow 
milk  and  fresh  eggs!  Hen  and  I  did  stay  a 
week,  sure  enough.  I  put  in  the  time  painting 
the  Bantayan,  while  Hen  took  more  fruitless 
pictures. 

The  white  men  of  the  camp  were  few  but  in 
teresting.  There  was  Minas,  the  Mexican  en 
gineer  of  the  launch,  Stanbury  the  clerk,  a  fine 
young  Mississippian;  Adams,  a  Creole,  who 
brought  in  supplies ;  and  two  small  boys,  one  the 


246    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

machine  shop  helper  and  the  other  a  fire  guard 
at  the  skidder.  Very  silent,  manly  little  chaps 
these  were.  The  "  fallers "  were  all  negroes, 
but  the  "  tree  deadeners  "  were  Creoles.  How 
ever,  the  race  question  seemed  to  adjust  itself, 
and  life  in  the  big  swamp  camp  went  on  amica 
bly.  The  head  cook  was  up  at  three  o'clock  each 
morning,  and  the  men  at  four.  Coffee  was 
served  at  once  to  all  who  wished  to  visit  the  kitch 
en  in  line.  In  fact,  it  was  the  custom  for  any 
man  to  drop  in,  if  work  did  not  engross  him, 
for  a  cup  of  coffee  any  time  of  day.  Then  the 
camp  buildings  became  deserted,  for  at  five- 
thirty  everyone  was  off  to  the  woods  until  noon 
when  the  little  train  pulled  in  and  the  hungry 
swampers  made  a  rush  for  the  cookhouse.  Then 
back  once  more  until  six. 

Up  in  the  slashin'  the  men  were  divided  into 
gangs;  fallers,  sawyers,  track  layer's,  riggers, 
tonghookers,  and  signalmen.  There  were  two 
skidder  machines  working  and  these  drew  the 
logs  to  the  railroad  tracks  and  loaded  them  on 
the  trucks  by  means  of  a  rude  aerial  cable  way. 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     247 

The  riggers  attached  the  logs  to  these  cables 
which  were  suspended  from  huge  treetops  here 
and  there;  and  then  the  engine  raised  them  bod 
ily  and  they  came  swinging  on  over  the  under 
brush  and  water  to  be  dropped  on  the  trucks. 
Then  the  loaders  adjusted  them,  and  when  the 
train  was  made  up  it  chugged  out  to  the  river 
camp  four  miles  away.  It  was  rude,  rough 
work,  the  men  often  in  water  above  their  waists, 
but  the  day's  grind  went  through  cheerfully. 

I  finished  painting  the  pirogue,  and  she  was 
very  gay  in  her  red,  black,  and  yellow.  Captain 
Forgey  told  us  a  funny  story  of  how,  one  time, 
as  a  joke  he  told  all  the  Creole  traders  and  trap 
pers  round  about  that  they  must  xiame  their 
boats  before  they  could  land  at  his  wharf.  This 
bothered  one  old  fisherman  very  much,  for  he 
couldn't  think  of  a  name  for  his  scow  and 
couldn't  write  it  anyway.  As  his  was  a  boat  that 
called  every  Monday,  the  genial  Captain  sug 
gested  it  be  called:  "Run  Monday,"  and  he 
made  a  stencil  for  the  M'sieu  Skipper. 

The  next  week  M'sieu  Skipper  of  the  craft 


248    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

came  back  and  very  proudly  with  Run  Monday 
across  the  bows — upside  down  and  backwards! 

He  had  hauled  his  boat  out  and  turned  her 
over  when  he  put  the  stencil  on  her  wood.  "  Dog 
gone  him,"  said  Captain  Forgey,  "  that  boat's 
running  around  here  yet.  He  got  the  joke  on 
me  and  didn't  know  it!" 

Sunday  in  camp  was  a  lazy  day.  I  remember 
the  night  before  that  we  had  discussed  fishing, 
and  Hen  had  casually  complained  that  fishing 
had  been  poor.  He  would  liked  to  have  had 
some  fish. 

Well,  the  next  morning  about  daybreak  we 
were  awakened  by  the  most  terrific  explosion 
seemingly  right  under  our  noses.  I  crawled  out 
of  bed  and  looked  to  see  if  a  boiler  hadn't  blown 
up  somewhere.  On  the  end  of  the  wharf  stood 
an  interested  group. 

Out  on  the  river  were  four  boats  loaded  with 
darkies  yelling  and  splashing  and  rowing  about. 

"What  the  blazes  is  the  matter?"  murmured 
Hen  sleepily. 

A  man  grinned  up  pleasantly.   "  Oh,  we  heard 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     249 

you  gentlemen  say  you-all  liked  fish  so  we  sent 
the  boys  out  there  this  mawnin'  to  dynamite  the 


river." 


Now  I  call  that  hospitality.  "The  boys" 
brought  in  a  bushel  or  so  ol  gaspergou  and  cat 
fish  so  all  the  camp  breakfasted  on  them.  I 
hear  my  sporting  friends  murmur  something 
about  the  game  and  fish  laws? 

Quien  sabe?  I  reckon  they  haven't  got  far, 
down  in  the  deep  swamp,  with  laws  and  regula 
tions. 

We  lounged  in  the  shade  of  the  store  gallerie. 
It  was  about  the  sixteenth  of  May  and  just  be 
ginning  to  warm  up  a  bit  like  summer.  Minas, 
the  handsome  Mexican  engineer,  was  hollow- 
eyed  and  languid.  The  boys  joshed  him  about 
just  getting  back  to  camp  for  breakfast  from  a 
trip  to  see  his  girl  at  Four  Mile  Bayou.  Minas 
yawningly  admitted  it.  I  asked  Minas  why,  as 
it  was  Sunday  he  didn't  make  a  day  of  it,  too, 
and  he  sighed. 

"  Oh,  I  got  another  girl  up  Little  Godell  and 
maybe  dis  afternoon,  I'll  be  passin'  dat  way." 


250    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

"  Girls — girls ! "  growled  Hen,  "  here  it  goes 
once  more.  Right  off  here  in  the  peace  of  the 
woods  somebody  lugs  in  the  subject.  I'm  free, 
white,  and  twenty-one,  and  I  protest " 

Minas  waved  his  hand  languidly  out  to  the 
river.  And  I  swear  to  you  I  looked  to  see  one 
of  the  prettiest  (Hen  doesn't  know  I'm  writ 
ing  this)  sights  I  ever  looked  on.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  of  a  bright  May  day  and  the  sun  shone 
down  on  a  sparkling  river  banded  everywhere 
with  the  wild  hyacinths  in  full  bloom  and  drift 
ing  with  the  tide.  And  among  the  flowers  were 
two  push-boats  loaded  with  Creole  girls  in  bright 
dresses.  One  girl  in  each  boat  was  standing  up, 
working  the  long  oars  easily  with  a  graceful  step 
forward,  a  turn  of  the  wrist,  a  slow  recovery 
with  the  step  back  as  she  feathered  the  blades. 
And  the  others  sat  in  bow  and  stern  trailing 
lilies  in  the  water  and  singing! 

I  was  amazed.     What  and  where? 

"  Come  from  dat  ball  down  Lake  Verret," 
drawled  Minas,  "  and  just  getting  home  up 
Four-Bavou." 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     251 

The  store  keeper,  the  engineer,  and  the  loung 
ing  white  boys  turned  longing  eyes  toward  the 
flower-circled  galleys.  The  dark-eyed  girls 
looked  back,  but  went  slowly  on,  singing  and 
pushing  their  heavy  boats  against  the  lily  drift. 
They  were  rowing  twelve  miles  home  after  an 
all-night  dance  that  did  not  end  'til  sun  rise. 
And  how  they  had  strength  left  to  sing  at  the 
task  was  beyond  our  city  minds  to  grasp.  But  I 
will  not  soon  forget  the  pretty,  wholesome  sight, 
nor  the  drawling  comments  of  clean,  kindly 
humor  with  which  the  young  men  of  the  camp 
looked  after  them. 

Sunday  night  as  we  sat  about  the  store  gal- 
lerie,  our  hosts  proposed  that  we  go  to 
"meetinV 

I  looked  around.  Nothing  in  camp  looked 
like  divine  services. 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,  sure! "  went  on  Captain 
Forgey,  hospitably.  "  There  aren't  any  just 
now  but  I  can  scare  some  up.  Here  you,  Hog- 
jaw,"  he  continued  addressing  an  idling  young 
black,  "  go  over  to  the  bunkhouse  and  tell  the 


252    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

boys  we're  going  to  have  church — and  we  want 
it  good." 

And  in  about  ten  minutes  we  heard  the  most 
fearful  eater-wauling  over  in  the  whitewashed 
sheds  imaginable,  a  pounding  and  hobbling 
about  in  a  rude  dance  and  now  and  then  a  yell 

to  Heaven. 

"  I  reckon,"   drawled  Minas,   "  Crump  and 

Hogjaw  and  Ole  Doc  Fortune  has  got  'em  or 
ganized." 

When  we  arrived  at  the  bunkhouse  the  center 
of  the  floor  was  filled  with  dancing  darkies,  lan 
terns  in  hand,  swinging  and  swaying  about,  while 
others  in  the  bunks  kept  time  with  their  hands, 
and  feet,  interspersed  now  and  then  with  whoops 
and  calls  upon  the  Lord.  We  listened  with  in 
terest.  I  thought  it  was  a  joke  at  first,  but  it 
was  not.  In  half  an  hour  the  negroes  had 
worked  themselves  up  to  a  frenzy,  writhing, 
twisting,  rolling  their  eyes,  the  sweat  pouring 
from  them  as  they  danced  and  chanted,  while  a 
cloud  of  dust  rose  up  that  all  but  hid  the  cele 
brants. 


THE  FLOATING  GARDENS     253 

As  far  as  I  could  make  out  their  chief  hymn 
went: 

"Ah  tek  dat  boat  to  Buelah  Lan'— - 

Oh— Oh— Ah— eee! 

De  Lawd  done  mek  me  a  present  gran' — 
Oh— Oh— Ah— eee! 
And  All's  g'wine  fo'  to  see! 
Sistern,   bredern,   come   along — come   along, 
Fo'  Ah's  g'wine  f o'  to  see !  " 

There  were  other  chants  mostly  unintelligible, 
but  consisting  now  and  then  of  words  strung 
together  without  reason,  or  meter,  interspersed 
with  "  Oh,  Lawds!  "  and  "  Lawd,  save  us!  "  all 
to  the  accompaniment  of  thumping  shoes  and 
shaking  of  heads  on  the  part  of  the  spectators. 
The  "  meetin' "  went  on  after  we  had  gone,  and 
finally  the  boss  had  to  send  a  man  to  repress  it. 
But  long  after  I  was  in  bed,  there  came  the  fit 
ful  shouts  and  chants  of  the  black  swampers, 
with  now  and  then  a  rich,  deep  voice  raised  in 
some  old  time  melody. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DOWN  LA  FOURCHE  IN  A  "  GAZZOLINE  " 

WE  left  the  hospitable  swampers  of  Belle 
River  the  next  afternoon,  paddling 
three  miles  down  to  Bayou  Magazine 
and  then  off  through  the  woods  to  Lake  Verret. 
It  was  sundown  when  we  reached  this  silent  and 
beautiful  sheet  of  water  which  stretched  far  to 
the  West  but  was  not  here  more  than  a  mile 
wide.  We  saw  a  white  shell  beach  directly  across 
under  the  trees  and  made  for  it.  The  lumber 
men  had  given  us  directions  which  would  mark 
the  entrance  to  the  new  canal  connecting  Lake 
Verret  with  Bayou  La  Fourche  which  we  had 
decided  to  reach  in  order  to  get  to  the  coast  at 
Grand  Isle. 

We  still  had  it  in  mind  to  take  up  Allesjan- 
dro's  offer  made  two  months  ago  at  Clark  Che- 

254 


IN   A    "GAZZOLINE"  255 

niere  and  go  visit  his  master,  Baron  Gaal  at  Cut 
ler's  Island,  and  besides  we  were  beginning  to 
feel  the  heat  of  the  Louisiana  summer  and 
wanted  to  smell  the  cool  sea. 

Yet  I  declare  it  was  with  a  genuine  feeling  of 
regret  that  we  set  the  Bantayan's  nose  eastward 
and  homeward  after  this  footless  three  months' 
wanderings  in  the  lower  coast  bayous.  It  had 
been  fine,  and  that  night  as  we  camped  on 
the  tiny  ridge  of  shell  beach  along  the  lake — on 
one  side  open  water  and  on  the  other  an  impass 
able  swamp  of  gum,  cypress,  and  vine-tangled 
oak  whose  pools  were  reflected  in  the  big  camp 
fire — Hen  and  I  were  silent.  It  was  a  great 
camp,  and  probably  our  last  of  the  real  wilder 
ness.  A  storm  was  winking  away  over  the  Gulf 
to  the  south,  and  this  sheet  lightning  and  the  red 
leap  of  the  fire  lit  up  the  stirring  masses  of  the 
moss  overhanging  us, — a  scene  as  weird  and 
ghostly  as  one  could  imagine,  but  the  great  cy 
press  somehow  had  never  daunted  us,  as  we  had 
been  told  it  would. 

"  Those    terrible    woods    will    get    on    your 


256     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

nerves,"  someone  had  assured  us  in  New  Or 
leans,  "and  fever — and  snakes " 

And  we  had  found  nothing  but  beauty  in  the 
deep  swamp,  and  never  a  day  of  fever  with  all 
our  three  months  of  sleeping  on  the  ground  or  in 
shacks  where  there  was  no  gruand  to  sleep  on. 
And  snakes — well  they  had  become  a  joke.  The 
snake  dope  syringe  had  never  been  touched  since 
the  time  we  experimented  on  the  nigger  from 
Grand  Caillou. 

"  It's  all  in  the  know-how,"  murmured  Hen, 
"and  somehow  we've  learned  the  know-how. 
Took  some  hard  knocks  and  some  chances,  but 
it  was  worth  while — everything.  What  you  go 
ing  to  do  when  you  get  back  into  store  clothes 
again?" 

"  I  don't  know.    I  hate  to  think " 

"  So  do  I.  And  darned  if  I  will.  I'm  going 
to  roll  in!" 

We  spent  an  uneventful  day,  washing  up 
things  for  the  next  stage  of  travel,  and  went  fish 
ing  in  the  evening.  We  hooked  a  soft  shell  turtle 
and  stewed  him  shell  and  all — an  experiment 


IN   A    "GAZZOLINE"  257 

that  turned  out  splendidly,  for  the  shell  came  out 
as  gelatinous  lumps,  very  palatable. 

"And  glory  be!"  murmured  Hen — "not  an 
egg  in  him — or  her  1 " 

Hen  was  always  touchy  about  turtle  eggs, 
girls,  and  romance,  as  I  have  remarked  before. 

Two  shy  young  chaps  came  into  camp  at 
night,  having  seen  our  fire.  They  were  lily 
guards  employed  to  keep  the  hyacinths  out  of 
the  canal  up  the  lake  and  through  them  we 
learned  it  would  be  no  trick  at  all  to  get  to  La 
Fourche  in  our  shallow  draft  boat.  So  the  next 
morning  we  went  up  the  lake,  turned  into  a  tiny 
channel  and  paddled  twelve  miles  of  beautiful 
going,  now  in  bright  sun,  now  in  glittering  show 
ers  out  of  the  blue  and  white  sky.  The  iris  and 
hyacinths  were  all  about  us,  and  the  blackberries 
overhung  the  margin  with  beyond  the  ever- 
changing  forest.  But  gradually  this  fell  away 
to  thin  woods,  a  cleared  field  now  and  then,  and 
finally  we  came  upon  the  dredge  three  miles  from 
La  Fourche  bayou  where  we  had  coffee  with  the 
crew  who  made  us,  also,  the  loan  of  the  inevitable 


258    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

mule  cart  to  tote  our  outfit  over  an  unfinished 
mile  of  the  cutting. 

From  this  point  we  got  into  the  placid  La 
Fourche  with  its  ancient  and  well-kept  small 
farms  on  each  side  of  the  levee  and  we  went  five 
miles  up  to  Napoleonville  where  we  had,  a  month 
ago,  ordered  our  mail  sent.  We  had  not  had  a 
letter  since  we  plunged  into  the  Grand  Lake 
woods  from  New  Iberia,  April  22.  To-day  was 
May  20.  Nor  had  we  seen  a  newspaper.  Iii 
fact  we  had  become  astonishingly  indifferent  to 
the  world  of  men.  I  remember  the  intense  inter 
est  we  had  acquired  in  each  day's  happenings, 
the  woodsmen  we  met,  the  weather,  the  grub,  the 
water,  and  the  work — but  of  the  outside  world 
not  a  thing! 

Hen  failed  to  get  the  pack  of  films  he  ex 
pected  at  Napoleonville.  We  dined  in  some  state 
for  two  ragged-shirt,  khaki-trousered  vaga 
bonds,  at  the  best  restaurant  the  village  afforded 
and  then  decided — as  we  felt  fine  and  fit,  even 
after  our  twenty-six  miles  of  paddling  that  day 
— to  go  back  down  La  Fourche.  Somehow  a: 


72V   A    "GAZZOLINE"  259 

town  didn't  look  good  to  us  after  the  glory  of 
the  swamp. 

We  paddled  for  three  hours  that  night.  The 
starlight  made  the  bayou  banks  wonderful  masses 
of  shadows  lit  up  by  the  unending  line  of  wild, 
white  roses  growing  over  the  old  levee.  Not  a 
house  was  visible,  nor  a  sound  heard,  yet  over  the 
levee  we  knew  almost  continual  settlement  ran 
for  sixty  miles  down  La  Fourche.  We  were 
anxious  to  be  out  of  the  "house  country,"  as 
Hen  had  it. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  we  left  off 
following  the  stream  with  its  rose-scented  air  and 
starry  shadows,  drew  the  pirogue  up  the  bank, 
laid  down  our  blankets  and  slept  in  such  peace  as 
only  out-door  men  and  tired  men  know.  Break 
fast  we  had  on  the  grassy  levee  in  the  sun,  and 
then  off  to  reach  Thibidoux  at  noon. 

This  was  a  quaint,  sleepy,  ante-bellum  town, 
looking  like  a  bit  of  French  New  Orleans  drop 
ped  down  in  a  smiling  country-side.  It  had  the 
same  narrow  stone  "  banquettes,"  closely  shut 
tered  first  floors  to  the  houses  and  the  ornate 


260    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

galleries  above  where  the  people  sat  in  the  even 
ing  looking  down  on  the  placid  street  life.  A 
guitar  tinkled  somewhere  off  in  a  clematis-hid 
den  veranda  and  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  white, 
cool  looking  girls  in  doorways  and  on  the  streets. 
It  was  "  Assumption  Day,"  and  business  was 
shut  down  entirely.  There  was  a  "  Ball,"  of 
course,  and  even  we — the  ragged  strangers — 
were  asked  by  some  soft-voiced  young  men  in 
front  of  the  "  drugsto'." 

But  we  had  arranged  with  Captain  Fran 
cisco  of  an  ice  boat  lying  in  the  bayou  to  haul  us 
down  to  Lockport,  for  shame  to  tell,  Hen  had 
got  suddenly  lazy.  He  said  it  was  stomach  ache 
which  the  waitress  at  the  Thibidoux  cafe  had 
given  him! 

And  somehow,  after  these  weeks  of  paddling 
the  Bantayan  across  rough  lakes  and  treacher 
ous  rivers,  it  appealed  to  me.  Maybe  it  was  that 
sun  'way  down  in  Louisiany! 

At  least,  after  a  night  sleeping  on  the  grassy 
levee,  face  up  to  the  stars,  listening  to  the  tinkle 
of  the  guitars  at  the  ball,  we  piled  our  luggage 
on  Capt.  Francisco's  boat  before  dawn.  The 


IN   A    "GAZZOLINE"  261 

Italian  bayou  men,  mostly  oyster  fishers  up  from 
the  Caillou  and  Tambalier  camps — were  already 
out  on  the  luggars  about  us.  Each  had  its  little 
charcoal  brazier  fire  and  breakfast  was  a-going. 
So  was  the  ball,  and  with  the  music  we  heard  the 
Creole  girls  singing !  Amazing  is  youth.  We  had 
slept  away  their  hours.  But  there  was  work 
ahead.  Francisco's  gasoline  boat  swung  off 
from  the  night-damp  wharf,  and  now  the  soft 
mists  hid  the  town  from  sight,  a  last  light  twink 
ling  in  the  ball  room,  and  the  pleasant  laughter 
coming. 

We  could  see  something  of  La  Fourche 
country  from  the  top  of  the  boat  when  day  came. 
Pepper  and  oak  trees,  the  eaves  and  galleries  of 
quaint  little  homes,  with  roses  over  their  roof 
trees,  bits  of  cane  and  corn  fields,  peaceful  pas 
tures  with  fat  cattle  grazing,  and  beyond — ever 
beyond — the  grim  blue  wall  of  the  deep  swamp 
out  "  beyond  the  forty-arpent  line  " — the  cy-« 
press  forest  from  which  we  had  come.  North 
or  south  as  we  looked  over  the  strip  of  planta 
tions,  always  the  woods  were  there  calling  to 
us. 


262     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

The  skipper  hailed  us  to  breakfast.  Capt. 
Francisco  could  speak  no  English,  but  his 
dreamy-eyed  seventeen  year-old  son  did  the  hon 
ors.  Vincenzo  was  the  engineer  and  had  many 
comments  to  make  on  other  craft  we  passed. 
Later  we  came  down  on  a  big  luggar  moored  be 
side  the  bank,  her  crew  lolling  under  the  red  sail 
which  was  warped  over  the  spar  to  form  an  awn 
ing.  Vincenzo  hailed  them  and  we  laid  along 
side.  And  to  my  surprise  I  saw  that  the  skipper 
was  a  young  Cajun  whom  we  had  met  over  in 
New  Iberia,  with  whom  we  had  dripped  many  a 
pot  of  coffee  and  therefore  were  blood  brothers 
of  the  road.  He  was  the  one  of  the  coterie  who 
had  loaned  his  knowledge  to  the  discussion  of 
Evangeline  and  the  schoolmaster's  drama  down 
on  Capau's  shantyboat  under  the  bridge. 

"What  you-all  doin'  hea'?"  he  demanded. 
"  Yo'  sho'  ought  to  be  drownded!  " 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  How  did  you 
ever  get  the  Little  Brunette  away  over  in  this 
country? " 

Octave  smiled  languidly. 


IN  A    "GAZZOLINE"  263 

"Ah  came  hea'  fo'  a  load  of  watermelons. 
But  dey  tell  me  on  La  Fourche  watermelon 
won't  be  ripe  fo'  month  yet." 

Young  Vincenzo  laughed  gleefully.  "  Man, 
you  goin'  to  wait  a  month  fo'  watermelon? " 

Octo'  waved  his  cigarette.  "  Ah  sho  am.  Dat 
sou'  caster  he  blow  all  dis  mont',  and  I  couldn't 
get  back  to  Mawgan  City  nohow." 

Young  Vincenzo  of  the  Good  Child  laughed 
joyously  again  at  young  Octo'  of  the  Little 
Brunette. 

"  Man,  why  you  no  buy  a  gazzoline? " 

"  Ah  don't  want  no  gazzoline.  Mah  girl  down 
in  Mawgan  City  say:  'Boy,  if  yo'  put  gazzoline 
in  dat  luggar,  Ah  neve'  ma'y  yo' ! '  Gazzoline 
give  mah  girl  a  head  ache." 

So  the  Good  Child  laid  along  side  the  Little 
Brunette  all  the  sunny  afternoon  while  we  drank 
coffee,  ate  rice  and  shrimp,  sauce  piquante,  and 
listened  to  talk  of  girls  and  gazzoline.  Octo',  it 
appeared,  had  conceived  the  brilliant  idea,  now 
that  the  oyster  season  was  over  at  the  Teche 
ports,  of  bringing  his  red-sailed  luggar  up  La 


264    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Fourche  and  getting  the  first  load  of  water 
melons  for  the  New  Orleans  markets.  So  he 
sailed  leisurely  down  the  Teche,  into  the  Atcha- 
falaya,  out  into  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  into  Tam- 
balier  Bay,  up  Grand  Caillou  into  La  Fourche 
until  the  winds  went  down  on  him,  when  he  as 
leisurely  tied  up  to  the  bank  and  waited  for  the 
watermelons  to  ripen.  All  the  weeks  we  had 
been  fighting  across  the  flooded  country  to  the 
upper  La  Fourche,  he  had  been  peacefully 
coming  around  by  sea. 

Happy,  brown-skinned  Octo'  with  his  girl, 
and  waiting  for  his  watermelons!  Octo',  idling 
under  his  red  sail,  "  making  breakfast "  on  his 
charcoal  furnace,  lying  back  on  the  Little  Bru 
nette  hatch,  cigarette  on  lip,  day  after  day,  wait 
ing  for  the  watermelons  to  ripen! 

After  all,  maybe  Octo'  is  right. 

But  Vincenzo,  after  the  Good  Child  was  off 
down  the  bayou,  looked  back  at  Octo' ;  "  I  sho' 
never  sit  dat  way  a  month  waitin'  on  a  load  of 
watermelons.  I'd  put  in  a  gazzoline  and  see 
the  worl'." 

The   "  gazzoline "    pounded  on   between   the 


IN   A    "GAZZOLINE"  265 

green,  narrow  banks,  scaring  now  and  then  a 
group  of  yellow-legged  geese,  a  grazing  cow,  or 
a  flock  of  the  dirty,  repulsive  vultures  which  are 
so  irritatingly  tame  and  fat,  they  will  hardly  get 
out  of  one's  path.  Here  and  there  a  negro 
mammy  was  washing  clothes  by  the  bayou  side 
with  a  catfish  line  tied  to  the  leg  of  the  stool  hold 
ing  her  tub.  About  her  the  clothes  were  spread 
on  the  grass,  and  the  black  Egyptian  women  in 
their  red  and  yellow  head-dresses  stopped  to 
look,  and  looked  as  long  as  the  "  gazzoline  "  was 
in  sight.  I  looked  back,  too,  and  never  did  I  see 
a  catfish  bite,  nor  a  wash  finished.  It  was  all  like 
Octo'  and  his  watermelons. 

Now  and  then  the  Good  Child  tied  up  to  the 
bank,  Francisco  got  ashore  to  hold  the  headline 
and  over  the  levee  appeared  a  head  or  two.  A 
leisurely  conversation  ensued,  growing  more  ex 
cited,  and  just  when  Hen  and  I  were  concluding 
that  a  Black  Hand  feud  was  about  to  be  fought 
out  between  our  crew  and  the  villagers,  the  alter 
cation  would  subside — and  up  over  the  bank 
would  come  two  men  carrying  a  sack  of  potatoes. 

This  took  place  so  many  times  that  Hen  and 


266    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

I  finally  went  ashore  to  peer  over  the  levee.  And 
there,  spread  before  us,  was  a  bit  of  Arcady 
again!  A  green-embowered  house,  the  roses 
climbing  over  the  fence  along  the  dusty,  bril 
liant  road;  and  beyond  the  almond  and  the  um 
brella  trees,  the  orange  and  the  pomegranate 
bloom,  was  the  ever-smiling  land  stretching  to 
the  forest  wall  dim  and  blue  and  far. 

The  Arcadians  would  hear  the  Good  Child 
whistle  and  would  come  over  the  bank  to  inquire 
the  price  of  potatoes.  Captain  Francisco  would 
quote  a  price  quite  one  cent  under  what  the  Ar 
cadians  insisted  they  ought  to  get.  Then,  at 
once,  objurgation,  recrimination,  lamentation. 
However,  it  ended  invariably  with  the  Arcadi 
ans  lugging  a  sack  of  spuds  over  the  bank  and 
depositing  it  on  the  foredeck  of  the  Black  Hand 
ship.  Then  the  Arcadians  and  the  Black  Hand- 
ers  delivered  each  themselves  of  another  frevent 
peroration,  waved  bon  soir,  and  went  their  ways. 

Sometimes  when  you're  tired  of  soul,  wander 
down  La  Fourche  in  the  May  sunshine  and  look 


IN  A   "GAZZOLINE"  267 

and  listen — but  do  it  soon,  for  we  Yankees  with 
our  reclamation  schemes  and  dredge  boats  and 
land  seekers  are  fast  despoiling  Arcady.  No 
longer  will  Octo'  face  a  derisive  world  waiting  a 
month  for  watermelons.  He  will  have  to  put  in 
a  "  gazzoline  "  and  give  his  girl  the  headache. 

We  left  the  Good  Child  at  La  Rose  where  she 
turned  off  on  her  way  to  New  Orleans  for  that 
cargo  of  ice,  and  promptly  got  another  lift  on  a 
very  new  boat,  the  America,  owned  by  a  proud 
young  Captain,  Andreas  Tujague.  A  potato 
boat  this  time,  and  running  down  lower  La 
Fourche  to  the  potato  country — just  where  we 
wanted  to  go  and  where  we  didn't  want  to  pad 
dle.  We  had  become  disgracefully  recreant  I'll 
admit,  but  canoeing  in  La  Fourche  isn't  much. 
From  the  water  level  you  can't  see  a  thing,  ex 
cept  buzzards  and  cows  and  geese  and  negro 
wash  ladies  with  catfish  lines  attached. 

Captain  Tujague  was  mightily  proud  of  his 
wife  and  babies,  his  farm  and  his  new  potato 
boat.  We  dined  pleasantly  with  him  al  fresco, 


268    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

on  the  forward  deck,  while  his  negro  hand  held 
the  wheel,  and  he  informed  us  he  was  going 
"  down  below/*  and  we  would  like  it.  Hen  and 
I  said  we  were  willing  and  would  sure  like  it,  be 
ing  adaptable  vagrants  of  fortune.  So  the  new 
stern  wheeler  America  chugged  on  until  the  star 
light  came  and  then  on.  Our  impressions  of 
Lower  La  Fourche  were  still  of  neat  farm 
homes,  small  fields  of  okra,  tomatoes,  potatoes, 
corn,  and  melons.  No  negroes  and  no  lordly 
overseers  riding  about  as  in  the  Teche  country, 
but  small  comfortable  home  makers,  the  sort  who 
are  depicted  in  Evangeline: 

"  Here  you  will  find  the  Creole, 
And  small  Acadian  planter, 
Who  pours  forth  his  heart  and  his  wine 
Together  in  endless  profusion — 
Beautiful  the  land  with  its  prairies 
And  forests  of  fruit  trees; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers; 
And  the  bluest  of  heavens 
Bending  above  and  resting  its  dome  on 
The  walls  of  the  forest. 
They  who  dwell  here  have  named  it 
The  Eden  of  Louisiana." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PADDLING  TO  THE  GULF  ISLANDS 

WE  awoke  in  the  hold  of  the  good  boat 
America.  The  young  Captain  was 
calling  down:  "Bon  jour!  Comme 
vous  portez  vous,  M'sieurs?  " 

Then  there  was,  of  course,  some  more  about 
coffee. 

The  America  was  lying  along  a  willow  bank 
over  which  from  the  farmstead  were  coming 
sunbonnetted  women.  We  dressed  hastily  and 
thanked  Captain  Andreas  for  the  hospitality  of 
the  potato  hold  which  had  saved  us  the  trouble 
of  making  camp  when  the  boat  tied  up  last  night. 
He  had  urged  us  to  go  to  his  house,  but  I  rea 
soned  that  the  place  was  small  and  the  family 
large  and  was  right. 

269 


270    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

His  father  and  mother,  brothers,  sisters, 
nephews,  all  were  coming  on  board  to  greet  the 
strangers  and  see  what  the  America  had  brought 
back  from  the  city. 

The  men  in  their  light,  neatly  washed  trousers 
and  broad  sun  hats  were  just  from  the  field. 
They  had  been  hoeing  since  daylight  and  had 
now  come  in  for  breakfast,  after  the  custom  of 
the  country.    It  was  by  far  the  most  oddly  for 
eign  group  and  environment  we  had  seen  in  the 
bayou  country,  or  for  that  matter  in  Louisiana. 
The  neat  places,  the  placid  cattle,  knee  deep  in 
the  water,  the  snug  air  of  thrift  and  prosperity 
made  us  think  of  a  French  peasantry.    We  had 
coffee  with  these  pleasant  folk,  few  of  whom 
could  speak  English,  and  then  set  off  down  the 
bayou,  being  anxious  to  make  time  before  the 
sun  grew  hot.     Five  miles  below  we  landed  in 
the  willows  and  cooked  breakfast.     The  farm 
country  here  was  fast  giving  out  to  willow  and 
gum  scrub,  and  the  line  of  forest,  which  had  fol 
lowed  all  the  way  down  La  Fourche  on  each 
side  three  or  four  miles  distant,  now  straggled 
of  into  mere  ragged  skeletons. 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS    271 

"  The  big  salt  marshes !  "  said  Hen,  "  and  the 
sea! "  He  pointed  south  where  the  sun  seemed 
shining  over  hot,  level  flats  of  green.  "  And 
there's  a  tide  here,  too! " 

It  was  indeed  setting  up  the  bayou.  We 
tasted  it  and  felt  as  elated  as  Balboa  must  have 
done. 

"  Hooray!  "  cried  Hen.  "  Now  oysters  again 
— and  shrimp !  And  I'm  going  to  hook  a  tarpon 
in  Caminada  Pass.  And  the  old  baron  who's 
got  the  big  place  on  the  island  and  gave  us  the 
bid!  Thank  you — we'll  stay  a  month!" 

We  paddled  on,  and  the  banks  grew  flatter, 
and  the  little  fields  with  the  Cajun  women  hoe 
ing  gave  way  to  pastures  of  coarse  grass  with 
stubby  palms  and  gnarly  oak  trees  growing  here 
and  there  among  the  water  pools.  We  stopped 
at  a  palm  hut  back  in  one  of  these  groves  to 
fill  our  canvas  water  bottle,  for  we  didn't  know 
just  how  much  fresh  water  we  would  find  below, 
not  having  the  remotest  idea  of  the  sort  of  land 
it  was.  The  old  Malay  who  offered  us  his  rain 
barrel  courteously  could  speak  no  English,  so 
we  went  on.  Six  or  eight  miles  of  this  desolate 


272     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

country,  with  the  great  cypress  dwindling  out  to 
a  mere  dying  forest  in  the  salt  prairies,  found  us 
still  working  energetically  despite  the  heat.  We 
wanted  to  get  somewhere  out  of  it. 

At  three  o'clock  we  reached  a  dismal  fishing 
hamlet  at  the  junction  of  the  canal  that  led  to 
Barataria  Bay.  It  was  twelve  miles  from  here 
to  the  open  Gulf,  and  this  was  the  last  inhabit 
able  land  except  a  few  lonely  camps.  The  idlers 
about  the  store  advised  us  not  to  tackle  the  out 
side  route,  and  for  once  we  took  advice  and  de 
cided  to  strike  east  through  the  marshes,  cross 
the  big  bay,  and  reach  Grand  Isle.  There  would 
be  no  fresh  water  nor  people  nor  little  chance 
for  a  safe  camp,  so  we  best  have  a  care  tackling 
the  weather  in  that  pirogue. 

Alex  Le  Fort,  the  storekeeper  and  the  head 
man  of  the  village,  had  heard  of  us  from  voy- 
ageurs  of  the  Little  Lake  country.  They  had 
just  a  trifle  of  suspicion  in  all  their  courteous- 
ness.  Certainly,  what  were  two  strangers  doing 
poking  about  all  these  months  through  the 
bayous  with  a  camera  and  taking  notes  in  books, 


"  "I 


We  climb  above  the  moss  plumes  to  take  an  observation, 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS    273 

sleeping  on  the  ground  and  enduring  undoubted 
hardships  when  they  might  have  traveled — if 
they  had  to  travel — like  men  of  sense?  Pleas 
ure?  That  was  preposterous — there  could  be  no 
pleasure  in  it! 

However,  much  as  we  could  read  between  the 
lines,  we  were  treated,  as  ever,  with  the  utmost 
good  will.  On  both  sides  of  the  bayou  at  Lee- 
ville  were  the  idle  shrimp  and  fish  luggars  lying 
along  the  rude  walks  that  led  to  the  houses. 
Back  of  this  shimmered  the  illimitable  salt 
marshes,  with  far  away  a  gigantic  funnel  of 
black  smoke  where  the  grass  was  burning.  We 
rested  two  hours  at  the  store,  and  then  made 
one  of  our  usual  late-in-the-day  starts  up  the 
canal  to  reach  Caminada  Bay.  And  we  had  not 
gone  very  far  into  this  eight  miles  of  narrow 
waterway,  lined  on  each  side  with  the  tall  grass 
and  mangroves  before  we  found  it  was  suffocat 
ingly  hot.  But  we  dug  at  it,  watching  the  van 
ishing  point  of  the  canal  far  ahead.  Just  what 
sort  of  camp  we  would  find  in  the  marshes  be 
yond  we  had  no  idea.  And  after  some  long 


274     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

sweating  work  I  reached  back  for  the  canvas 
water  bottle  and  discovered  we  had  at  last  done 
that  utterly  inexcusable  trick — forgotten  to  fill 
it! 

Hen  and  I  stopped  paddling  and  looked  at 
each  other. 

"Fitchered!"  said  Hen.  "We  daren't  run 
deeper  into  the  marsh  without  water." 

"  But  it's  some  broiling  miles  back  to  Le 
Fort's,"  I  retorted.  We  looked  ahead.  The 
end  of  the  canal  was  tantalizingly  near — not 
more  than  a  mile,  we  figured. 

"  Surely  we'll  find  a  camp  somewhere."  I  got 
ashore  and  tried  to  stand  on  the  "  trembling 
prairie  "  to  look  ahead.  Nothing  in  sight  but  the 
impassable  marsh  and  a  glimpse  of  blue  salt 
water  to  the  south.  Leeville  back  on  this  shin 
ing  thread  of  canal  was  merely  a  smudge  of 
darker  color  on  the  intolerable  glitter  of  the 
west. 

I  wiped  the  sweat  from  my  eyes.  A  mosquito 
had  sing-songed  out  of  the  marsh.  I  remem 
bered  we  were  in  the  dreaded  lower  La  Fourche 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS    275 

marshes,  from  which,  when  the  wind  is  right,  the 
scourge  rises  to  invade  all  the  south  coast  islands. 

"  Hen,  if  we  try  to  paddle  back,  the  mos 
quitoes  will  be  on  us  soon  as  the  sun  sets — and 
something  bad.  I'm  pretty  thirsty,  but  let's 
take  a  chance.  When  we  get  to  the  end  of 
the  canal  we  ought  to  find  someone — a  luggar 
or  a  camp." 

But  there  was  no  sail  in  sight — nor  a  shack 
in  all  the  miles  we  could  see  in  every  direction. 

"  Well,  dig  in,"  growled  Hen;  "  at  the  worst 
we  can  make  a  dry  camp,  go  without  eating,  and 
keep  going — only  when  we  get  into  Caminada 
Bay  we'll  be  in  big  salt  water  without  an  idea 
of  what  direction  to  steer.  But  take  a  chance — 
come  on ! " 

So  we  paddled  on  more  weary  miles,  with  now 
and  then  a  mullet  leaping  into  the  pirogue,  and 
the  shadowy  forms  of  the  giant  gars  moving  be 
fore  us  in  the  clear  depth.  Soon  we  saw  the 
water  with  no  shore  beyond,  and  working  stead 
ily  on,  we  reached  it  just  at  sunset.  And  by 
great  luck  there  was  firm  land  there — a  long  spit 


276    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

of  white  shell  Leach,  hardly  twelve  feet  wide,  it 
is  true,  but  campable.  And  as  we  anxiously 
paddled  along  this,  we  saw  a  pirogue  drawn  up, 
and  then  a  man — and  then  a  palm  shack  set  back 
in  a  forlorn  clump  of  mangroves! 

Never  did  we  greet  a  chap  heartier  than  this 
poor  crippled  hunter  and  fisher,  who,  with  his 
wife  and  four  children,  was  making  a  miserable 
living  in  this  utter  solitude.  And  never  did  we 
get  a  kindlier  welcome.  He  had  absolutely 
nothing — not  even  a  boat,  save  his  pirogue,  and 
his  arm  and  hand  were  swollen  enormously  from 
the  sting  of  a  ray.  He  had  met  this  misfortune 
while  drawing  seine  with  a  Grand  Isle  company, 
and  thereafter  had  to  quit  the  work.  All  spring 
his  hand  had  been  useless,  and  his  little  boys  had 
helped  him  with  the  hand  lines  catching  the  fish 
with  which  they  subsisted.  But  he  offered  his 
coffee  hospitably,  and  though  water  was  scarce 
in  his  rain  barrels,  he  filled  our  bottle.  He 
pressed  us  to  eat  in  his  shack,  but  we  put  up  the 
tent  on  the  shell  bank,  bought  two  flounders  of 
him  for  half  a  dollar — at  which  he  protested  that 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS    277 

we  were  cheating  ourselves — and  cooked  our 
own  supper. 

Meantime  the  sun  had  gone  down  in  the  yel 
low  marsh  and  the  mosquitoes  arose  in  clouds. 
We  had  to  abandon  supper  half-eaten  and  crawl 
under  our  bar.  We  had  been  troubled  little 
with  them  so  far,  despite  predictions,  and  this 
vicious  assault  was  a  bad  taste.  In  five  minutes 
the  roar  about  the  tent  was  like  a  high-keyed 
machine,  and  it  kept  on  into  the  dark  for  an 
hour.  If  we  lit  a  candle  the  sound  grew  enor 
mously,  for  many  huge  black  beetles  charged 
into  the  tent  and  clung  to  the  bar,  diving  now 
and  then  crazily  against  the  wall. 

But  we  slept  well.  Leon,  the  fisher,  tapped 
on  the  tent  pole  at  dawn  to  ask  us  in  for  early 
coffee.  And  when  we  were  out,  another  man 
was  there — a  silent  Creole,  Andreas  Moutin, 
who  had  a  sailing  skiff.  He  had  volunteered  to 
carry  us  down  Caminada  Bay  to  La  Cheniere, 
hearing  from  Leon  that  we  were  trying  to  reach 
the  coast. 

And  a  good  thing,  too,  for  a  southwest  breeze 


278    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

was  kicking  Caminada  Bay  to  a  smother  of 
whitecaps.  We  couldn't  have  set  the  Bantayan 
into  it  for  a  mile.  Hen  protested  a  bit,  as  pride 
was  beginning  to  hurt  him  at  being  carried  along 
so  much.  But  canoeing  was  impossible  that  day, 
so  at  nine  we  set  off  with  the  smiling  Andreas 
in  his  cat-rigged  skiff.  We  skirted  long,  marshy 
points  and  cut  across  deep  bays,  the  skiff  holding 
up  well  in  the  choppy  sea.  It  was  noon  when 
we  reached  the  lower  end  of  La  Cheniere  Cami 
nada — that  lonely  and  forsaken  island  of  the 
dead.  Not  even  yet,  after  twenty  years,  have 
the  south  coast  folk  ventured  back  to  it — the 
memory  of  the  hurricane  which  hurled  its  homes 
and  ships  and  very  soil  along  with  a  thousand 
people  into  the  raging  Gulf  is  still  on  their 
souls. 

La  Cheniere,  in  the  old  days,  was  the  chief 
and  liveliest  settlement  of  the  south  coast — gay 
and  lawless  and  unheeding.  To-day  there  are 
but  four  inhabited  houses  scattered  about  among 
the  storm-twisted  oaks  and  mangroves,  and  its 
once  fine  beach  is  a  ghastly  reminder — riven  and 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS    279 

torn  and  jagged,  the  sea  here  and  there  running 
up  among  the  trees,  washing  the  sand  from  their 
roots,  which  shine  dead  and  spectral  in  the  sun 
light.  Back  of  the  houses  is  the  marsh  with  its 
pools  unstirred  by  anything  but  sea  birds,  though 
now  and  then  you  see  in  these  pools  the  scat 
tered  bricks  and  foundations  of  a  house.  The 
stark,  unpainted  church  of  La  Cheniere  stands 
in  the  wrecked  burying  ground,  unused,  its  floor 
bellied  up,  its  foundations  sunken,  just  as  the 
Gulf  storm  left  it.  I  do  not  know  of  such  a 
scene  of  melancholy  ruin  anywhere  as  is  La 
Cheniere  Caminada. 

We  did  not  go  up  far  in  the  depressing  island. 
Skipper  Andreas  landed  us  on  the  lower  point 
and  lifted  a  hand  to  show  the  way  to  Grand 
Isle.  It  was  a  dim  blue  smudge  of  trees  far  to 
the  east.  The  nearer  end  of  it  was  a  mere  spit 
of  shining  sand  and  over  this  was  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico.  Once  far  in  Caminada  Pass  we  saw 
the  gleam  of  a  breaker.  That  was  what  we 
wanted — the  sea! 

Andreas    stayed   with    us    for    breakfast — or 


280    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

rather  we  with  him,  for  it  was  Andreas  who 
made  the  jambelaya  of  oysters,  ham,  rice,  and 
crabs  which  Hen  speared  around  in  the  shallows. 
I  made  the  biscuit.  There  wasn't  much  conver 
sation  but  many  smiles  and  gesticulations.  An 
dreas  didn't  know  a  word  of  English.  But  that 
was  a  famous  breakfast.  Only  I  must  tell  you 
what  Hen  relates  with  gusto — how  I  bragged 
so  inordinately  of  my  biscuit  and  Andreas,  with 
many  gestures,  assisted  at  the  apotheosis  of  the 
biscuit — but  didn't  eat  any — and  then,  how, 
when  we  reached  Grand  Isle  later  and  men 
tioned  our  kind  host,  Andreas,  we  discovered 
that  he  was  once  the  most  famous  baker  of  all 
the  region  round  about! 

But  I  draw  the  curtain.  It  is  bad  taste  to  tell 
a  joke  on  one's  self. 

So  a  hot  Sunday  noon,  after  a  swim  in  the  salt 
water,  we  paddled  leisurely  across  the  roadstead 
of  ancient  Caminada  to  Grand  Isle.  The  long 
sand  reef  ahead  protected  us  from  the  rough 
ness,  so  the  Eantayan  had  no  fear.  Once  in  a 
while  a  little  sea  jogged  up  over  her  rubber  cloth 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS    281 

covering,  but  after  the  Atchafalaya  lakes  this 
was  nothing. 

We  saw  a  luggar  lying  a  mile  below  and 
headed  for  it.  Under  the  shade  of  its  gunwale 
we  talked  with  the  lazy  crew.  They  had  been 
hauling  seine  and  of  course  we  had  to  drink  cof 
fee  with  them.  We  had  got  so  used  to  drinking 
coffee  with  every  man  we  met  under  all  circum 
stances,  that  now  we  could  squat  in  the  shade  of 
a  sailcloth  or  mangrove  bush,  stir  in  the  canned 
milk,  and  gesticulate  in  the  coast  patois  with 
any  of  them. 

Hen  told  the  Filipino-Creole  crew  that  he  was 
going  to  hook  a  tarpon.  At  once  there  was  an 
excited  protest.  They  declared  we  had  better 
let  the  tarpon  alone.  No  one  ever  thought  of 
catching  tarpon.  They  were  no  good,  and  they 
were  dangerous.  They  related  wild  tales  of 
malevolent  tarpon  jumping  up  in  the  air  and 
coming  down  on  unprotected  boats  just  for 
devilment.  If  once  you  made  a  tarpon  mad  he 
would  lie  awake  nights  thinking  of  some  way 
to  "  do  "  you. 


282    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

No — no,  the  fishers  protested — we  must  not 
bother  the  tarpon !  Anyhow,  what  earthly  sport 
was  it  to  catch  a  fish?  Nothing  but  hard,  wet 
drudgery,  and  there  was  hardly  a  living  in  it. 

As  to  a  good  time,  one  had  better  go  to  the 
"  ball "  this  evenin'  if  one  wanted  a  good  time. 
One  brown-armed,  eager  fellow  pointed — just 
paddle  that  way  a  mile  or  so  and  we  would 
come  to  the  terrapin  factory,  and  then  in  the 
cTieniere  we  would  find  Ludwig's  store  and  back 
of  that  the  "  ball."  He  thought  they  would  have 
good  music,  too,  for  the  Hazel  boat  was  in. 

"The  Hazel  boat!"  Well,  well— we  had 
found  an  old  friend  of  three  months  ago  up  in 
Barataria! 

Hen  and  I  felt  as  though  we  were  nearing 
home — though  where  was  home  for  Hen  and 
me? 

So  we  indulgently  refrained  from  talking 
tarpon  to  men  who  manifestly  saw  nothing  in 
it  but  imbecility.  We  did  paddle  on,  and  the 
crew  waved  us  away  with  many  protestations  of 
friendship,  saying  they  would  surely  see  us  at 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS     283 

the  ball.  Above  the  low  green  oaks  of  Grand 
Isle  we  saw,  now  and  then,  a  red  roof.  Out  in 
the  roadstead  a  huge  old  shed  hung  over  the 
water;  and  to  piles  driven  here  and  there  were 
idle  luggars,  skiffs,  and  gasoline  boats.  We 
could  hear  the  boom  of  the  surf  now  over  the 
oak  groves  which  ran  up  the  backbone  of  the 
nine-mile  island.  It  was  hardly  more  than 
half  a  mile  wide,  nor  more  than  four  feet  above 
the  sea.  One  could  understand  how  the  West 
Indian  hurricanes,  when  they  strike  the  Gulf 
coast,  drive  the  waters  far  and  deep  over  the 
helpless  hamlets. 

We  walked  a  quarter  mile  on  a  good  shell 
road  to  reach  Ludwig's  store.  It  was  in  a  yard 
behind  thick  fig  trees  and  on  its  broad  gallerie 
sat  a  comfortable,  gray-haired  woman,  who 
greeted  us  with  a  soft  fe  Bon  solr,  M'sieurs'* 

Then  we  met  her  son,  the  leading  merchant 
and  factor  of  the  island — portly,  dignified,  with 
the  air  and  moustachios  of  a  prosperous  Cuban 
planter.  We  explained  that  we  had  just  landed 
and  wanted  dinner.  Certainly,  M'sieurs,  there 


284    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

must  be  a  place  where  dinner  could  be  had! 
Certainly  they  would  look,  although  there  was 
no  hotel  now  since  the  great  storm  of  '93.  Then 
along  came  a  little,  animated,  dark-skinned  man 
who  was  introduced  to  us  as  the  constable,  and 
acquainted  with  our  desires.  He  was  at  once 
seized  with  pleasurable  emotions  —  certainly, 
M'sieurs,  dinner  must  be  found! 

He  went  out  on  the  gallerie  and  there  was  a 
consultation.  Another  wide-hatted  and  leisurely 
citizen  joined  the  group;  a  barefooted  fisherman 
from  the  fig  tree  shade  added  a  word.  More 
consultation,  animation,  gesticulation.  It  grew 
warm,  with  many  pointings  off  and  lookings 
back  at  us,  shakings  of  head  and  protests.  And 
never  a  word  could  hungry  Hen  and  I  make 
of  it. 

Then  the  little  constable  approached  with  the 
air  of  a  diplomat.  M'sieu  Ludwig  had  pro 
posed  that  we  be  escorted  to  Madame  Naccari's, 
where  was  served  a  most  famous  dinner  in  the 
summer  when  a  few  strangers  visited  the  isle. 
But  he — well,  there  was  a  question? 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS    285 

Had  the  Honorable  Strangers  coats? 

Coats?  No,  the  honorable  but  hungry 
strangers  had  no  coats.  There  was  no  room  for 
coats  when  traveling  in  a  pirogue. 

The  Honorable  Constable  sighed.  Ah,  no 
coats!  That  was  unfortunate — no  coats.  At 
Madame  Naccari's  famous  sea  food  dinner, 
gentlemen  wore  coats.  He  was  not  sure — alas! 
It  was  a  delicate  subject — but  would  we  mind 
if 

"  Eat! "  said  Hen.  "  We  don't  care  a  d 

pardonne*  M'sieu — we  don't  care  where  we  eat 
or  how  or  what — only  eat.  We're  too  tired  to 
set  up  camp." 

Exactly.  They  all  sympathized.  But,  ah — 
no  coats! 

Then  a  brilliant  idea.  He  would  take  us  to 
Doctor  Seay's.  He  was  un  Americaine;  he  would 
understand.  He  would  welcome  strangers  from 
the  North,  coats  or  not. 

"  Lead  off,"  murmured  Hen.  "  As  I  said,  we 
don't  care  a " 

We  went  out,  following  the  little  constable, 


286     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

who  was  now  all  smiles  and  fervent  explana 
tions.  Welcome  to  Isle  Grande!  Welcome  to 
the  City!  The  strangers  forever!  Hooray! 

So  we  interpreted  public  feeling,  now  that  the 

delicate  issue  was   sidestepped.     The   crooked, 

narrow  path  leading  from  Ludwig's  fig-shaded 

store  to  the  Doctor's  was  girt  on  one  side  by 

gray-green  sea  marshes  with  tidal  pools  here  and 

there  in  which  the  fiddler  crabs  climbed  in  and 

out  away  from  our  feet  and  the  mullet  leaped; 

and  on  the  other  by  tumble-down  fences  choked 

and  hidden  by  roses  and  oleanders  and  Spanish 

bayonet  and  palms.     A  rough,  up-and-down, 

damp  little  path,   but  the  only  way  one  can 

travel  east  and  west  on  Grand  Isle  unless  one 

walks  on  the  outer  sea  beach  or  goes  through 

one's  neighbor's  gardens.     Which  is  what  ®ne 

mostly  does. 

Grand  Isle  is  a  unique  municipality  in  that 
respect — it  is  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  old, 
but  in  all  that  time  it  has  never  occurred  to  the 
natives  to  build  a  street.  So  there  is  no  street — 
not  one.  Between  the  shaded  gardens  and  neat, 


PADDLING  TO  GULF  ISLANDS     287 

miniature  fields  are  narrow  lanes,  but  so  narrow 
that  two  of  the  high-wheeled  carts,  which  are  the 
enly  means  of  carriage,  can  hardly  pass.  And 
these  only  run  from  "  beach  to  bay  "  across  the 
isle!  Lengthwise  there  are  no  streets  whatever. 
As  I  said,  when  you  shop  on  Grand  Isle,  you 
pass  into  your  neighbor's  lot,  meander  among 
the  oaks  and  oleanders  to  another  stile,  through 
it  and  another  until  you  come  to  the  "  sto'." 

Well,  we  meandered  down  the  bay  path, 
turned  into  a  lane,  into  a  lot  and  were  proudly 
introduced  to  Dr.  Seay.  We  were  hospitably 
received,  and  the  vivacious  young  daughter  of 
the  house  fitted  us  out  with  oysters  and  maca 
roni.  Then  we  idled  and  discussed  Grand  Isle 
and  our  adventures  until  the  heat  of  the  day 
was  broken,  when  the  Doctor  hitched  up  his  cart 
and  transported  all  our  luggage  to  the  outer 
beach.  There,  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
tumbling  surf,  we  put  up  the  little  silk  tent 
among  the  gorgeous  oleander  bloom.  Then  we 
rested  and  watched  the  great  round  moon  draw 
up  from  the  sea — soft  and  benignantly  shining 


288    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

as  were  the  airs  blown  over  the  water.  Some 
where  back  in  the  quiet  gardens  we  heard  the 
music  of  the  Sunday  evening  ball.  It  was  fine. 
We  sat  before  the  tent,  listening  to  the  surf  on 
the  yellow  sands  before  us,  watched  the  moon- 
path  on  the  water,  felt  that  soft  breeze  up  from 
Yucatan  six  hundred  miles  due  south,  and  voted 
old,  tumble-down,  carefree  Grand  Isle  the  place 
we  had  been  looking  for. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  never  go  home,"  murmured 
Hen — and  went  to  sleep  there  on  the  spot  all 
night,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  go  to  bed. 

What  sleeps !  And  eats !  Even  if  a  chap  had 
injured  his  social  standing  by  paddling  around 
the  wilderness  with  no  coat. 


•c 
a 
03 


EH 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MOEE  BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS 

NEXT  day  we  wandered  about  and  had 
breakfast  and  much  further  information 
at  the  Doctor's.  He  was  a  New  Orleans 
physician  who  had  come  down  to  the  south  coast 
islands  years  ago  for  his  health,  though  the  is 
landers  were  too  healthy  to  make  a  good  living. 
However,  the  Doctor  gardened,  as  did  all  the 
neighbors,  and  the  amount  of  stuff  that  can  be 
taken  off  these  tiny  two-acre  farms  of  Grand 
Isle  is  amazing.  In  the  early  spring,  cucum 
bers;  in  the  fall,  cauliflower;  and  both  the  earli 
est  raised  in  the  United  States  and  shipped 
principally  to  Chicago  markets  for  distribution. 
Between  croppings,  the  islanders  fish  and  trap, 
and  nearly  every  truck-gardener  has  his  "  seine 
share  "  in  one  of  the  luggars. 

289 


290    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

In  the  evening  I  drove  with  Doctor  Seay  in 
his  pony  cart  up  and  down  the  nine-mile  curve 
of  beach  with  the  surf  racing  under  the  wheels. 
At  either  end  the  oak  cheniere  dwindled  away  to 
mere  sandy  reaches  with  a  few  dead  trees  slant 
ing  northward  as  the  storms  had  left  them.  At 
the  east  end  of  the  island  is  Grande  Terre  Pass, 
and  at  the  other  Caminada,  and  from  these  out 
lets  the  tides  rush  fiercely,  draining  all  the  vast 
inland  of  swamps  and  lakes  reaching  from  the 
river  to  the  Gulf.  This  and  Grand  Terre  Island 
are  still  romantically  entwined  with  the  feats  of 
Jean  La  Fitte,  whose  pirate  ships  took  refuge 
here  from  raids  on  the  Caribbean;  and  where, 
later,  the  slave  ships  fled  when  the  British  and 
Yankee  sloops-of-war  tried  to  break  up  the 
traffic.  Here,  as  in  all  treasure-haunted  Bara- 
taria,  the  tales  still  linger  of  La  Fitte's  hidden 
c^old  and  of  the  days  when  cargoes  of  African 
savages  were  thrown  to  the  sharks  in  the  back 
bayous  rather  than  have  them  captured  by  the 
authorities. 

The  ancient  landing  place,  the  foundations  of 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS     291 

the  house,  and  the  old  round  tower  or  cistern  of 
bricks  at  Rigaud's  landing  on  the  bay  shore  are 
given  a  date  of  1780  in  local  legend,  which  is 
years  before  Pierre  and  Jean  La  Fitte,  the  gen 
tleman  adventurers,  fled  from  France  to  lend 
their  dubious  fortunes  to  the  thrifty  Creole 
smuggler-traders  of  New  Orleans,  by  their  ex 
ploits  in  the  Spanish  Main. 

Hen  and  I  grew  highly  interested.  It  is  true 
that  to-day  but  few  of  the  old  pirate  remains  are 
here.  The  fort  on  Grand  Terre,  where  Jean 
long  defied  the  puny  Republic  of  Madison's  day 
to  take  him,  and  from  which  he,  at  length,  led  a 
thousand  buccaneers  to  the  defense  of  New  Or 
leans  on  Andrew  Jackson's  promise  of  amnesty, 
has  long  since  been  engulfed  by  the  waves.  But 
there  are  a  few  old  families  about  whom  legends 
cluster — the  Rigauds  and  Chigazolas — as  being 
descended  from  the  adventurers  of  La  Fitte, 
though  now  these  are  the  usual  kindly,  courteous 
islanders  we  met  everywhere.  Hen  and  I  went 
to  the  west  end  of  the  island  in  quest  of  this 
ancient  stock  and  came  upon  our  buccaneers 


292    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

peacefully  sorting  cucumbers  under  the  oak 
shade  instead  of  slitting  windpipes  or  relating 
hairbreadth  'scapes. 

We  sat  down  to  listen  to  the  soft  Creole 
patois.  And  in  no  time  shy  boys  were  bringing 
gifts — garden  stuff  and  berries,  and  were  saying 
that  they  had  heard  of  us!  The  schoolteacher 
had  told  them  about  two  Yankees  she  had  seen 
almost  four  months  ago  starting  from  Barataria 
with  a  pirogue  and  a  silk  tent,  headed  for  Grand 
Island — and  where  had  we  been  all  this  time? 

That  was  flattering.  To  have  these  strangers 
interested  in  our  wanderings.  We  were  quite 
celebrated  at  once,  and  began  relating  Homeric 
tales — and  inquiring  about  the  fishing. 

Not  that  I  cared  a  rap  about  fishing.  Hen 
went  off  the  next  morning  vowing  he  would 
have,  at  last,  some  real  use  for  all  that  silver- 
tipped  and  jointed  plunder  of  his,  but  I  idled 
about  the  oak  grove  gardens  and  the  sto's  and 
the  galleries.  We  had  had  a  splendid  dip  in 
the  surf  before  breakfast,  much  to  the  astonish 
ment  of  the  islanders,  who  never  went  in  the 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS    293 

sea  until  July  unless  they  fell  in.  But  the  bath 
ing  was  great.  Some  unfortunate  day  Grand 
Isle  will  be  discovered  and  muddled  over  with 
hotels  and  tourists,  and  its  warm,  gentle  surf  all 
cluttered  up  with  summer  girls.  May  Hen  not 
be  there  to  see.  Or  I  either!  The  charm  of  that 
dolce  far  niente  is  still  with  me. 

From  the  Doctor's  daughter  and  her  friends 
who  gathered  each  evening  on  her  gallerie  we 
learned  a  bit  of  Grand  Isle's  curious  social  con 
dition.  It  apparently  is  one  place  in  the  South 
where  the  color  line  is  not  drawn  sharply. 
There  were  not  a  great  many  families  of  pure 
white  blood,  and  the  "  mixed  "  people  were  far 
wealthier  and  more  influential.  There  are  four 
"sets,"  as  they  had  it.  The  whites,  the  "light 
mixed,"  "  dark  mixed,"  and  "  just  nigger," 
though  there  are  few  blacks.  Now,  though  all 
get  on  in  the  days'  work  with  the  most  amicable 
neighborliness,  when  it  comes  to  "  pawties  "  and 
"  balls  "  they  had  to  have  a  care.  The  white 
girls,  being  very  few,  had  no  real  ball;  but  their 
brothers,  with  more  license,  could  go  to  the 


294    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

"light  mixed"  or  "cafe  an  lait"  ball.  But 
none  of  the  light  mixed  people  would  attend  a 
"  dark  mixed  "  or  "  caf6  noir  "  festivity,  and  of 
course  the  "  just  nigger "  was  excluded  from 
all  of  them. 

The  perpetual  amiable  gossip  of  the  island 
was  the  intermarryings  of  the  various  layers. 
The  light-mixed  people,  being  the  richer  and 
the  real  land-owning  class,  had  a  school  of  their 
own,  because  they  would  not  send  the  children 
to  the  larger  school  where  the  ff  cafe  nolrs " 
could  go  also,  and  were  debarred  from  the  real 
white  class,  who  attempted  to  have  a  school  also 
privately  maintained.  As  there  were  not  four 
hundred  people  in  the  entire  community,  the 
"  schools  "  were  not  flourishing  institutions;  but 
the  funny  thing  of  it  was,  with  this  pretense  of 
class  exclusiveness,  the  entire  neighborly  amica 
bility  that  enwrapped  the  whole  island. 

They  had  no  jail.  They  had  no  church.  I 
asked  the  official  what  was  done  when  there  was 
trouble.  He  related  an  exciting  story. 

"Wan   time   der  was   a   Manilaman   named 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS    295 

Jose.  Wan  time  dis  Jose  he  coom  here  and 
feesh,  and  he  drink  wine.  Eheu!  Dat  red  wine 
he  drink!  I  put  dat  Jose  on  a  feesh  boat  wan 
time  when  he  drink  too  much  red  wine,  and  he 
went  away — I  dun-no." 

The  higher  life  had  an  even  more  agitating 
legend.  Once  there  was  a  church.  It  seemed 
that  a  priest  came  to  the  island  and  got  every 
one  to  help  build  the  church.  Everyone  did,  and 
yvhen  the  church  was  up  the  happy  islanders  dis 
covered  how  the  uplift  had  brought  the  serpent 
into  Eden.  Who  was  to  worship  in  the  church? 
White,  "  light  mixed,"  "  dark  mixed,"  or  "just 
nigger"? 

It  was  the  happy  isle's  one  legend  of  general 
contention.  They  wrangled  and  raged  and  no 
one  could  make  head  or  tail  of  the  controversy, 
until  finally  some  unknown  Solomon  settled  the 
matter  by  burning  the  church  down  one  night. 
Again  peace  reigned,  and  never  since  has  Grand 
Isle  bothered  its  head  about  religion. 

Wealth,  too,  seemed  to  lose  its  distinction 
here.  Everyone  on  the  island  worked — easily, 


296    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

independently,  buoyantly,  and  made  a  living. 
The  richest  man  on  the  island,  except  John  Lud- 
wig,  the  terrapin  king,  was  one  who  owned  ten 
beach  shore  lots.  But  everyone  worked,  either 
at  the  "  cues  "  or  the  fishing  or  in  the  "  sto's." 
Grand  Isle  will  make  a  fine  study  for  some  econ 
omist,  bad  luck  to  him, 

Ludwig's  terrapin  farm  was  a  collection  of 
sheds  out  on  the  bay  shore  marshes,  and  in  it 
were  six  thousand  small  diamond  backed  turtles. 
The  terrapin  king  bought  every  terrapin  that 
the  hunters  brought  to  him,  held  them  in  his 
shed  and  shipped  them  North  by  boat  and  rail 
whenever  an  order  came.  The  business  made 
him  wealthy,  even  as  the  outside  world  rates 
wealth.  Terrapin  occasionally  bring  him  forty 
dollars  a  dozen  and  he  pays  about  a  dollar 
apiece.  Ludwig — Creole,  for  all  his  German 
name — was  an  intelligent  and  courteous  man. 
He  had  outside  correspondents  in  business,  and 
had  been  to  New  York  and  Philadelphia.  To 
his  store,  the  principal  one  on  the  island,  came 
most  of  the  inhabitants  for  advice,  and  when  the 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS    297 

fishing  was  bad  or  the  crop  poor,  the  general 
patrone  carried  them  through  the  season  on  his 
books.  And  he  lost  little.  People  were  honest, 
he  told  me. 

At  Ludwig's  store  was  the  only  bar.  But  it 
had  none  of  the  character  of  a  saloon.  No 
loafers  were  about  it;  no  barkeeper  either.  If 
one  wanted  a  drink  the  proprietor  or  one  of  the 
boys  in  the  store  passed  into  the  annex,  served 
you,  and  came  out.  Or,  if  busy,  they  told  you 
to  help  yourself  and  pay  out  in  the  store.  More 
than  likely  half-a-dozen  handsome  children  were 
playing  "  keep  house  "  or  something  of  the  kind 
in  the  barroom,  and  no  man  would  be  in  it  all 
day  long. 

There  were  four  more  stores  on  the  island, 
each  set  back  in  its  own  shady  grove  and  hedged 
about  with  magnolia,  oleander,  and  roses.  If 
one  went  from  Ludwig's  to  Adams's  or  Nac- 
cari's  stores  one  went  over  stiles  and  through 
gates  on  a  veritable  lover's  path,  winding  in  and 
out  with  no  pretense  of  street  or  sidewalk.  The 
Arcadian  simplicity  of  Grand  Isle  was  refresh- 


298    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

ing,  as  fine  as  the  hospitality  of  its  people. 

Hen  and  I  bathed  of  mornings  in  that  surf, 
idled,  smoked,  wandered,  sat  on  the  galleries, 
talked  boats  and  fishing,  storms  and  cucumbers, 
all  of  a  week  ere  we  knew  it  had  gone.  Once 
we  mentioned  that  we  really  ought  to  be  going 
and  there  was  a  kindly  murmur  of  dissent.  Go? 
Why  we  had  only  just  come!  Besides,  Satur 
day  the  Hazel  boat  came  back  and  there  would 
be  a  ball  Saturday  night,  Sunday,  and  Sunday 
night.  Sunday  all  the  bayou  boat  men  would 
be  in,  and  the  seine  crews  and  the  island  would 
give  itself  to  gayety.  So  we  agreed  to  stay,  not 
having  any  particular  place  to  go. 

We  had  enjoyed  the  beach  camp.  For  ten 
days  the  southwest  breeze  blew  off  the  Gulf, 
night  and  day,  and  our  little  silk  tent  bellied 
out  like  a  paper  bag.  We  slept  without  bars, 
which  was  remarkable  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
for  the  sea  wind  kept  every  mosquito  away.  It 
is  the  occasional  west  winds  that  bring  the 
scourge  off  La  Fourche  marshes — I  have  visited 
Grand  Isle  since  when  they  were  intolerable  for 
a  time. 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS    299 

We  heard  a  good  deal  about  the  two  balls  on 
Saturday  night.  Our  fair  young  friends  who 
radiated  about  the  Doctor's  were,  of  course, 
going  to  their  own  ball;  but  some  of  the  young 
chaps  privately  informed  us  that  there  would  be 
cake  and  sherbet  and  the  prettiest  girls  at  the 
other. 

Hen  and  I  determined  we  would  see  both. 
And  when  we  went  we  were  totally  unable  to 
see  any  difference  in  the  quiet,  fun-loving  folk 
at  the  two  pavilions.  There  were  not  a  dozen 
young  people  at  the  white  ball;  but  we  did  the 
honors  and  then  slipped  away  through  the  moon 
light  to  the  other,  stopping  at  the  sto'  for  a 
measure  of  wine  and  a  word  with  the  elders 
grouped  about  on  the  gallerie  benches.  There 
was  always  laughter,  gentle  badinage  in  the  soft 
patois,  and  room  for  a  friend.  A  young  fellow 
was  telling  of  the  "  fit "  that  Unc'  Henri  had 
in  the  "  cue  "  patch  that  "  evening."  A  pretty 
young  girl  had  come  out  of  the  house  to  hold 
ammonia  to  his  nose ;  and  thereat  the  young  men 
workers  begged  their  employer  for  half  an  hour 
off  that  they  might  each  have  a  fit  and  be  min- 


300    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

istered  to  by  the  pretty  daughter.  Unc'  Henri, 
a  white-bearded  patriarch,  now  quite  recovered, 
sat  among  them  and  enjoyed  the  banter  much 
as  anyone. 

The  ballroom  was  a  long  pavilion  open  on 
every  side  and  with  oleanders  and  roses  hanging 
in  over  the  gallerie  railing,  rough,  unpainted,  lit 
by  side  lamps  hung  here  and  there.  At  one  end 
was  the  "  music,"  an  accordeon  and  a  fiddle,  and 
around  the  floor  waltzed  dreamily  the  youth  and 
beauty  of  Grand  Isle. 

We  were  heartily  welcomed.  We  could  sit  in 
the  "grape  arbeh,"  or  we  could  dance.  And 
there  would  be  sherbet  and  cake  and  also  gumbo. 
Did  we  think  it  was  too  warm  a  night  for 
gumbo? 

Never.  It  was  a  fine  night  for  anything. 
Even  Hen  warmed  up  as  he  saw  the  little  girls 
in  white  with  the  orange  blossoms  in  their  hair 
waltzing  about  the  old  floor.  All  of  the 
family  giving  the  ball  were  busied.  M'sieu 
was  deftly  shaving  one  guest  in  an  ante-room, 
Madame  was  stirring  the  gumbo,  the  children 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS     301 

were  in  ecstasies  over  the  sherbet — it  was  sho*  a 
grand  ball. 

But  my  friend,  Hen,  was  in  trouble  again. 
He  wanted  to  dance!  And  he  had  encountered 
the  constable,  who  was  the  stickler  for  proprie 
ties  on  Grand  Island.  And  Hen  had  no  coat. 
And  holes  in  his  flannel  shirt.  The  constable 
explained  that  he  had  just  come  from  our  camp. 
"I  told  mah  wife  I  sho'  was  goin'  to  pass  by 
dat  camp  and  escort  dem  gentlemen  to  dat  ball. 
Eheu!  And  dem  gentlemen  didn't  wait  fo'  me!  " 

Horrible !  We  had  made  another  social  break 
by  not  waiting  to  be  escorted  by  the  constable. 

But  Hen  wanted  to  dance.  He  told  the  con 
stable  very  touchingly  that  he  had  no  coat.  They 
nearly  wept  together.  And  the  next  I  knew 
Hen  was  doing  twosteps  around  that  floor  in  a 
blue  coat  with  brass  buttons  which  he  had  bor 
rowed  from  a  lonely,  callow  militiaman  who  had 
come  down  from  New  Orleans  on  the  Hazel 
boat,  and,  at  a  safe  distance,  had  been  bedazzling 
the  eyes  of  the  island  girls  with  all  this  glory. 
On  what  pretext  Hen  got  his  coat  I  do  not 


302     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

know,  but  my  fellow  voyager  was  now  romping 
around  the  hall  with  a  very  short  girl,  grimacing 
over  her  shoulder.  Hen  did  not  like  girls — not 
a  bit! 

The  anxious  militiaman  stood  about,  dangling 
his  hat  and  wondering.  When  the  dance  was 
done,  Hen  got  another  girl.  Then  another,  and 
another.  He  was  having  the  time  of  his  bright 
young  life,  hair  or  no  hair — and  all  the  time  the 
despoiled  soldier  stood  about  trying  to  get  up 
courage  to  ask  Hen  for  the  return  of  his  coat. 
The  girls  fell  to  laughing  as  we  sat  out  on  the 
gallerie.  Hen  had  made  a  great  hit. 

We  stayed  at  the  ball  until  midnight.  It  was 
very  fine  out  on  the  gallerie,  the  flower-decked 
girls,  the  moonlight,  the  odors  of  the  south  and 
the  boom  of  the  surf  on  the  island  sands,  and  the 
droning  music.  In  the  shadows  some  fellow 
played  a  guitar,  and  the  entire  assemblage  was 
low-voiced  and  gentle,  with  no  boisterousness 
nor  drinking  nor  a  jarring  note.  We  liked  the 
ball  immensely,  and  went  away  to  camp  satis 
fied. 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS    303 

Sunday  morning  we  idled  at  the  sto'  watching 
the  cocks  fight  in  the  yards  and  the  mule  carts 
creak  in  from  the  bay  shore  where  a  gas  boat 
was  being  unloaded.  The  anchorage  was  so 
shallow  that  the  boats  could  not  come  close  in, 
so  at  low  tide  the  mule  carts  were  driven  out 
to  the  lighters  and  the  freight  loaded  in  them. 
Another  line  of  half  a  dozen  carts  was  ambling 
out  of  the  narrow,  shady  lanes  loaded  with  cu 
cumbers  to  go,  the  next  day,  to  New  Orleans 
and  the  North. 

The  Sunday  idlers  on  the  gallerie  watched  the 
work  with  languid  comments.  I  asked  them 
why  a  wharf  had  never  been  built  to  do  away 
with  this  laborious  lightering,  and  they  seemed 
astonished.  We  found  that  Grand  Islanders  had 
a  pleasing  faith  that  some  day  a  railroad  would 
find  its  way  down  the  leagues  of  swamp  forest 
and  salt  marsh  to  the  coast,  a  great  hotel  would 
be  built,  and  their  fortunes  would  be  made.  Not 
a  man  would  sell  an  arpent  of  land.  They  could 
sit  on  the  gallerie  and  dream  of  their  long,  beau 
tiful  beach  cleaned  and  gay  with  winter  visitors, 


304    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

the  oak  groves  and  oleander  lined  lanes  set  with 
modern  cottages,  and  the  thrifty  folk  amassing 
money  from  their  ancient  holdings.  This  pleas 
ant  mood  of  the  lotus  eaters  we  found  among 
them  all.  They  were  absolutely  the  happiest 
people  it  has  ever  been  my  fortune  to  see. 

Hen  and  I  took  a  long  walk  down  the  island 
Sunday,  and  when  we  came  back  to  camp,  three 
dark-eyed  girls — with  the  inevitable  flowers  in 
their  hair  and  dressed  in  white  from  tip  to  toe — 
were  there  to  invite  us  to  another  ball.  Said 
Madamoiselle  Alirte:  "  They'll  be  mo'  ice  cream 
to-day,  and  I  was  just  passin'  to  tell  you-all." 

But  we  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  our  Doc 
tor's  to  drive  and  to  play  checkers,  which  I  did — 
on  his  operating  table,  of  which  he  said:  "  Been 
sixty-four  operations  on  this  and  only  one 
death."  But  he  beat  me  four  games  straight. 
Then  we  took  our  usual  spin  up  the  white  beach, 
and  the  Doctor  told  of  many  adventures  while 
going  on  calls  to  far  distant  islands  and  chen- 
ieres,  the  seas  rising  over  the  sands  as  he  drove, 
and  of  storm-lashed  boat-men  waiting  to  fetch 


BALLS,  GIRLS,  AND  LEGENDS     305 

him  across  to  attend  injured  men  of  the  camps. 
But  he  liked  it  all — the  freedom  and  the  bigness. 
He  told  us  the  celebrated  story  of  the  light 
house  keeper  at  Grand  Terre  who  went  to  the 
city  and  married  a  widow  and  six  children  and 
brought  her  down  to  the  coast.  The  widow  and 
her  children  stayed  two  weeks  pleasantly  enough 
and  then  went  back  to  the  city,  informing  the 
lovelorn  husband  that  they  guessed  they  had  had 
a  pretty  good  time  and  it  was  best  to  go — it  was 
the  first  time  in  twelve  years  the  widow  had 
been  able  to  take  the  family  on  a  vacation,  and 
she  thanked  him  very  much! 


CHAPTER   XV 


ON  THE  BAKON'S  ISLAND 


WE  did  not  attend  the  ball  that  night. 
Well  enough,  for  the  next  morning 
Miss  Alirte  "  passed  "  our  way  to  tell 
us  that  all  the  guests  had  gone  home  at  nine 
o'clock  in  disgust.  The  music  was  "  broke." 
The  accordeon  man  couldn't  fix  it  either,  he  de 
clared.  But  all  the  island  girls  had  a  deep  sus 
picion  that  the  accordeon  man  broke  his  music 
purposely,  being  tired  from  playing  all  night 
and  day,  and  besides  he  had  collected  all  the 
boys'  money,  anyhow.  The  music  that  "  broke  " 
so  inauspiciously  furnished  gossip  for  a  week. 

We  concluded  to  get  away  from  Grand  Isle 
that  day,  or  else  it  would  hold  us  forever.  Be 
sides,  up  the  Bay,  somewhere  was  Allesjandro 
and  his  mysterious  island  of  the  Baron.  We 
must  be  off.  So  Hen  and  I  made  a  round  of 
ceremony  to  all  the  sto's  and  the  cucumber  pick 
ers  saying  good-by  and  sailed  away  on  the  stern- 

306 


ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND      307 

wheel  gas  boat,  F.  <%  J.,  Captain  Fabre  Adam 
commanding. 

It  was  a  stormy  morning  that  dawned  on' 
Barataria  Bay,  and  when  we  had  made  the  run 
to  a.  lonely  shrimp  platform  at  Grand  Bank  and 
then  turned  northward,  the  wind  and  rain  buried 
us  again  in  darkness.  So  we  saw  Httle  of  Grand 
Terre  and  its  lighthouse  on  the  rampart  of  the 
ruined  fort — that  uninhabited  isle,  once  the 
refuge  of  La  Fitte,  and  now  lashed  by  wind  and 
eaten  by  waves  to  a  crumbling  waste.  Then  out 
of  the  storm  would  break  the  brilliant  sun  and 
we  would  see  the  far,  drenched  marshes  shining 
and  the  fierce,  broken  seas  in  the  passes;  and 
then  again  a  whirl  of  rain  and  wind  would  strike 
us.  It  is  a  coast  of  smiles  and  tears,  perilous 
whims  and  tragic  moods,  and  went  fitly  with 
tales  of  buccaneering. 

Fabre  Adam  landed  our  outfit  on  the  plat 
form  at  Manila  Village  with  some  difficulty  in 
the  pounding  seas.  Then  the  F.  <$  J.  veered 
off  in  the  storm,  leaving  us  gazing  about  from 
the  shed  at  a  curious  colony.  The  wooden 


308     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

shrimp  platform  was  a  full  acre  in  extent  and 
around  its  margins  were  built  the  houses  of  the 
fishers.  But  under  the  entire  village  the  waves 
rolled  and  crashed  through  the  salt  marsh.  Not 
a  bit  of  land  was  above  the  high  tides.  And 
while  we  stood  looking  somewhat  blankly  about, 
a  man  came  hurrying  down  through  the  rain 
with  his  hand  out  to  the  strangers.  He  wel 
comed  us  up  to  the  store  which  supplied  the 
seine  crews  of  the  shrimp  company.  And  a  cap 
ital  good  fellow  he  proved  to  be  in  the  three  days 
that  gale  lasted,  and  Hen  and  I  were  his  en 
forced  guests  at  Manila. 

Charley  Grand  jean,  one  time  of  the  South 
African  Mounted  Infantry,  globe-trotter,  sol 
dier  of  misfortune,  and  raconteur,  was  also  a 
great  cook.  We  were  rousingly  welcomed  by 
the  little  group  of  men  marooned  at  Manila.  It 
was  between  seasons  when  there  was  nothing  to 
do  but  mend  seines,  paint  boats,  and  take  care 
of  camp.  There  were  Charley,  the  cook,  and 
"  Scotty,"  one  time  Grandjean's  fellow  soldier 
in  the  Boer  War;  "  Portyghee  Joe,"  the  store 


ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND      309 

man;  Charley  Stein,  a  one-time  German  sailor, 
now  looking  after  the  oyster-beds — along  with  a 
Malay,  Italian,  and  Chinese  half-breed  or  two — 
all  eager  to  learn  something  from  outside  and 
eager  to  outdo  each  other  in  greeting  the 
strangers.  Also  there  were  Grand  jean's  pets — 
"  Nig,"  "  Happy,"  and  "  Rabbit,"  the  cats;  and 
six  grotesque  young  pelicans  waddling  about  the 
platform.  Also  a  mongrel  dog  or  two.  Two  or 
three  times  a  week  some  boat  stopped  at  the  plat 
form,  otherwise  the  stilt-dwellers  were  quite  cut 
off  from  the  earth. 

They  fed  us  well  and  told  us  wondrous  tales; 
of  the  sharks  and  stingrays  and  the  alligator 
hunting;  of  the  September  storms  when  the  seas 
had  had  them  clinging  by  their  teeth  to  the  frail 
supports ;  of  the  "  big  drunk  fights  "  on  the  plat 
forms  after  pay- Jays  when  the  fishing  was  good, 
and  it  was  every  one  for  himself  without  law  of 
man  or  God;  of  Grand  jean's  tramp  across  India 
after  he  left  the  English  service  and  was  trying 
to  get  home.  They  were  a  curious  lot ;  when  you 
inquire  delicately  why  this  man  or  that  is  down 


310    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

in  the  shrimp  camp,  he  may  shrug  his  shoulders 
enigmatically.  There  are  a  great  many  reasons. 
Life  was  a  gamble  there,  and  as  long  as  the 
world  goes  around  men  will  love  to  gamble. 
Grand  jean  said  he  was  discontented  anywhere 
else.  It  was  big  and  still  and  free  and  a  man 
could  be  a  man  among  men. 

Sometimes  the  seine  crews  made  big  money — 
and  the  next  month,  after  a  visit  to  the  city  and 
wine  and  woman  and  song,  they  were  broke  and 
in  debt  to  the  store  and  had  to  stay  to  work  it 
out.  And  down  river  to  the  Barataria  swamps 
— "  the  Free  State  " — come  many  men  who 
leave  their  country  for  their  country's  good; 
and  from  the  ships  of  the  nations  at  New  Or 
leans'  wharves  come  deserters  of  all  the  seas 
eager  for  the  New  World's  freedom. 

Thursday,  June  third,  the  sou'easter  swung 
west  and  the  next  day  was  clean  and  clear  to 
the  far  line  of  the  Gulf,  and  north  to  the  illim 
itable  marshes.  We  got  away  from  our  friends, 
paddling  again,  and  it  was  good  to  feel  the  old 
Bantayan  dig  forward  under  our  hands.  We 


ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND      311 

had  got  tolerable  directions  as  to  reaching  Cut 
ler's  Island,  but  in  an  hour  the  grassy-banked 
bayou  we  were  to  follow  through  the  marsh 
spread  into  immense  channels  threading  this 
way  and  that,  a  mile  or  so  wide  at  every  point, 
with  a  smart  breeze  kicking  up  the  whitecaps. 
And  from  the  water  level  we  could  not  see  the 
cheniere  that  would  mark  Cutler's  when  we  got 
out  of  the  marsh.  But  we  took  what  we  thought 
was  Bayou  St.  Denis  and  stuck  at  it  all  the 
afternoon. 

And  finally,  rounding  one  of  the  marsh  points 
that  thrust  out  of  the  vast,  impassable  "  trem 
bling  prairies,"  we  saw  a  far  oak  grove  over  a 
beach  of  shining  shells. 

"  The  Baron's ! "  yelled  Hen.  "  And  I  see  the 
yacht  riding  off  the  cove.  And  the  old  Filipino 
— maybe  he  won't  be  surprised!" 

We  crawled  on  slowly  along  the  marsh  shore. 
It  was  almost  sundown,  with  the  fiery  globe 
hanging  squarely  over  the  bit  of  land  and  all 
the  wet  prairies  round  about  turned  to  amazing 
colors  of  purple  and  yellow,  when  we  drewfup 


312     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

to  the  sloop.  A  little  man  was  bending  over 
some  task  on  the  after  deck  and  he  did  not  see 
us  until  we  yelled: 

"Hello,  Allesjandro!" 

Then  he  turned:    fe  Que  tal,  Senores! " 

He  rushed  to  give  us  a  hand.  His  delight 
couldn't  have  been  greater  if  we  had  been  long- 
lost  brothers,  and  his  pride,  when  he  had  landed 
us  on  the  shell  beach  and  escorted  us  up  to  the 
baronial  hall,  was  touching.  He  tapped  us  on 
the  back,  he  bowed  and  gestured  and  explained 
in  Spanish  and  French  and  Malay,  I  reckon — 
and  all  the  other  polyglot  tongues  of  the  south 
coast. 

Remember  us?  Ah,  could  the  distinguished 
Senores  doubt  him?  Almost  four  months  they 
had  waited  for  the  distinguished  Senores  who 
could  make  such  amazing  flapjacks  as  he,  Alles 
jandro,  had  witnessed  at  Clark's  cJieniere!  And 
a  tent  made  of  silk  that  would  fold  up  no  bigger 
than  one's  hat;  and  a  picture  machine,  a  won 
drous  fishing  rod  all  pretty  with  silver  gim- 
cracks;  and  duffles  and  piffles  and  whatnot — 


ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND      313 

who  would  ever  forget  the  distinguished 
Senores? 

The  Baron  stood  waving  his  long-stemmed 
meerschaum  with  dignity  while  his  major-domo 
spluttered  the  introduction.  Welcome — thrice, 
fifty  times,  welcome ! 

Seats  for  the  Senores  on  the  gallerie  and  cof 
fee  pronto!  You  bet.  The  Senores  never  re 
fused  anything.  They  met  also  the  Baron's 
young  wife  and  a  pretty  little  guest  down  from 
N'Awlyins. 

We  were  seated,  and  the  Baron  explained  that 
he  had  heard  of  us,  most  certainly.  We  were 
now  back  within  ten  miles  of  Clark's  Clieniere, 
where  we  bought  the  Bantayan  last  April  and 
started  back-tracking  from  Florida  and  the 
Fountain  of  Youth. 

And  did  we  have  a  good  time?  Great!  And 
did  we  like  the  people?  Splendidly!  And  the 
grub?  Wow!  And  the  mosquitoes?  By  Jimmy 
• — no!  No  one  could  love  a  mosquito! 

We  were  told  we  had  better  go  down  the  beach 
to  the  palm  hut  and  rig  our  bars  before  the  mos- 


314    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

quitoes  came.  Cutler's  was  bad  for  them  in 
June  time.  So  we  went  down  the  white,  clean 
beach  under  the  oaks  and  palm  scrub  and  hung 
our  bar  over  the  bunk.  Then  we  went  back  to 
the  tiny  home  among  the  oak  trees  and  china 
berries  and  had  dinner  on  the  screened  gallerie. 
After  sundown  the  mosquitoes  came  off  the 
marshes  back  of  us,  a  voracious  horde. 

We  dined  with  laughter  and  merriment,  the 
Baron,  portly  and  beaming,  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  his  wife  across;  little  Miss  Lincoln  and 
Allesjandro  on  one  side,  and  Hen  and  I  on  the 
other. 

The  Baron  told  of  his  youth  at  a  military 
school  at  Buda-Pesth;  and  how,  later,  he  wan 
dered  about  Europe,  and  when  the  Civil  War 
came  on  in  America,  crossed  the  ocean  as  a  soldier 
of  fortune  and  entered  the  Confederate  service 
in  a  Florida  regiment  with  the  rank  of  captain. 
When  the  cause  was  lost  he  came  to  New  Or 
leans  and  made  a  fortune  in  some  capacity  with 
the  old  Louisiana  lottery  company.  And  then 
he  lost  most  of  it  and  retired,  to  buy  Cutler's 


ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND      315 

Island  down  on  the  lonely  coast  and  come  here 
to  live  with  his  American  wife,  his  sloop  Liberty, 
and  his  man  Friday,  Allesjandro. 

No  one  came  to  see  him  any  more  except  wan 
derers  off  the  face  of  the  waters  like  ourselves, 
and  his  Cajun-Filipino  neighbors  from  far 
camps  in  the  chenieres  scattered  over  the  great 
marshes.  He  was  greatly  pleased  to  put  us  up. 
Allesjandro  must  help  us  store  our  stuff  and  we 
could  stay  a  month — a  year — always — quien 
sabe? 

It  was  pleasant.  Here  was  the  rich  garden 
back  of  the  house  where  Allesjandro  raised  corn, 
potatoes,  okra,  tomatoes,  melons,  everything. 
There  in  front  of  the  beach  lay  his  famous  oys 
ters.  All  about  the  luscious  crabs  crawled  to  be 
taken.  Shrimp  and  fish  were  at  one's  hand ;  and 
in  the  winter  ducks  and  a  deer  to  be  fetched  out 
of  the  swamp  beyond  Bayou  Dupont.  God  was 
good — did  we  ever  see  such  sunshine,  such  fine 
air  off  the  blue  Gulf  as  he  had  here? 

We  dined  excellently  on  crabs,  rice,  lettuce, 
and  begung. 


316    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Begung  was  raw  trout  eggs  in  vinegar  and 
spices — a  dish  that  Allesjandro  brought  from 
his  Asiatic  home.  And  good.  When  it  was  over 
we  talked  and  smoked  and  listened  to  the  roar 
of  the  mosquitoes  outside  the  screen  gallerie.  It 
was  terrific.  The  night  was  still  and  warm,  just 
the  night  for  mosquitoes  and  the  screens  were 
gray  with  them.  And  when  one  got  in  you 
would  hear  a  slap  and  a  word  and  a  scratch. 

We  did  not  leave  the  house  until  ten,  for  after 
that  the  mosquitoes  cease  their  ragings  largely. 
Then  we  walked  down  the  moonlit  shell  beach 
and  turned  in  under  our  own  bars  to  listen  to 
the  rustle  of  the  chameleons,  and  maybe  a  snake 
or  two,  in  the  dry  walls  of  our  palm  hut. 

We  awoke  to  have  a  swim  in  the  waters  of 
the  cove.  A  most  glorious  morning,  and  the 
appetite  we  took  up  to  the  Baron's  table  pleased 
everyone.  Fried  oysters  and  rolls  and  coffee. 
Then  another  day  of  sheer  idleness,  I'll  confess. 
No,  we  inspected  the  neat  garden  back  of  the 
oaks,  tonged  some  oysters  for  a  gumbo,  listened 
to  Esther  Lincoln's  soft-voiced  drawl  as  she  told 


ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND      317 

of  her  N'Awlyins  school,  and  the  Baron's  mis 
chievous  reminiscence.  Sitting  on  his  gallerie, 
the  great  bowl  of  his  pipe  resting  on  his  fat 
knee,  he  would  "  jolly  "  all  of  us.  Every  hour  we 
liked  the  Baron  better.  And  never  did  I  see 
such  loyalty  as  his  cheery  wife  and  Allesjandro 
gave  to  the  old  man.  The  rude  little  home  radi 
ated  good  will  and  good  humor  to  all  the  infinite 
loneliness  of  its  sweep  of  sea  and  sky  and  marsh. 
That  night  after  supper  we  gathered  in  the 
living  room  under  its  low,  smoky  rafters  hung 
with  garlands  of  bright  peppers,  garlic,  dried 
fish,  skins  of  mink,  and  hunting  clothes.  The 

Baron's  chimney  was  a  big  one,  thatched  with 

* 

mud  over  the  huge,  open  fire-place.  Wasps  had 
built  their  nests  in  every  corner  and  toe-hold, 
while  the  walls  were  a  gay  disorder  of  litho 
graphs  and  calendars. 

Worst  of  all  was  that  this  room  was  un 
screened;  and  best  of  all  was  the  opera.  For, 
honest,  we  had  opera !  That  was  the  occasion  of 
the  party.  The  old  Baron  retired  early  under 
his  mosquito  bar  to  the  bed  in  one  corner  of  the 


318     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

room,  merely  keeping  his  huge  pipe  bowl  out 
from  under  the  net,  where  it  waved  to  and  fro 
majestically  with  the  music.  Allesjandro  busied 
himself  with  making  a  fire  to  smoke  out  the  mos 
quitoes,  and  the  Mrs.  Baron  wound  up  the 
phonograph.  Then  Esther  passed  around  the 
citronelle  bottle,  from  which  everyone  liberally 
sprinkled  themselves  to  ward  the  mosquitoes 
still  further  away,  and  the  festivity  was  on. 

We  had  all  the  good  old  stuff;  Verdi,  and  the 
"  Pilgrims'  Chorus,"  and  the  "  Spring  Song," 
and  "  Tarentelle,"  and  then  we  saw  the  Baron's 
pipe  sticking  from  under  the  bar  keeping  time — 
while  puff — puff — puff — the  smoke  came  out 
the  top  of  the  bed — to  his  favorite:  "La  Donne 
e  Mobile,"  from  "  Rigoletto."  He  knew  all  the 
music  as  he  could  discuss  world  politics  or  the 
frying  of  soft  shell  crabs  when  he  wished. 

Allesjandro's  fire  soon  had  everybody  chok 
ing  and  sputtering,  but  still  the  mosquitoes 
fought  for  admittance.  So  the  party  went  on 
with  jibes  and  laughter,  the  phonograph  growl 
ing  away  on  its  classics,  and  the  smell  of  the 


ON  THE  BARON'S  ISLAND      319 

citronelle  rising  to  Heaven.  It  was  quite  eleven 
when  the  last  air  had  been  played  and  the  last 
pipe  smoked  by  the  Baron.  He  stuck  his  wise 
old  shaggy  head  from  under  the  bar  to  bid  us 
ff  Bon  soir"  Then  we  went  out  in  the  full 
moonlight  that  lay  like  a  bar  of  yellow  over 
Barataria  Bay  to  our  palm  hut  down  the  beach, 
still  humming  a  bit  of  Verdi. 

Says  Hen:  "Do  you  know,  if  it  wasn't  for 
the  mosquitoes  this  would  be  romantic.  Moon 
light,  music,  girl,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing! " 


CHAPTER   XVI 

WITH    THE    MORO   EXILES 

THE  next  morning  we  made  a  startling 
discovery.  I  had  had  an  extra  pair  of 
khaki  "  pants."  Hen  had  often  protested 
against  the  rashness  of  me  owning  two  pairs  of 
pants,  to  say  nothing  of  the  additional  burden 
to  our  canoe  outfit.  But  I  pointed  out  that  a 
man  cannot  properly  pursue  the  adventurous 
life  on  one  pair  of  trousers,  so  I  stuck  to  them. 
And  now  they  were  gone.  What  was  worse,  all 
our  money  was  in  them! 

We  racked  our  brains.  "  I  think  you  left  them 
at  Manila  in  Portyghee  Joe's  bunk,"  said  Hen. 

That  seemed  probable.  No  one  had  seen  the 
luckless  pants  for  a  week ;  and  there  was  no  pos 
sible  use  for  money.  We  related  this  harrow 
ing  tale  at  the  Baron's  and  at  once  they  were 

320 


The  sunken  shores  and  cypress  spikes  of  Grand  Lake. 


WITH  THE  MORO  EXILES      321 

all  sympathy.  It  was  decided  to  sail  at  once  for 
Manila  and  rescue  the  trousers,  and  the  Baron 
ess  and  her  guest  and  Hen  and  I  got  away  on 
Allesjandro's  yacht,  with  the  Baron  calling 
adieux  in  Latin  and  waving  his  pipe  from  the 
gallerie. 

We  had  a  famous  sail  of  it,  leaving  with  noth 
ing  but  early  coffee,  intending  to  get  breakfast 
on  board.  But  I  so  bragged  about  the  break 
fast  that  Charley  Grand  jean  would  cook  for  us, 
his  amazing  biscuits  and  shrimp  fricassee,  that 
Esther  joined  me  in  declining  to  eat  with  the 
others  on  board.  We  scorned  simple  rice  and 
bread,  but  when  we  reached  Manila,  with  the 
wind  dropping  fitfully  all  the  way,  it  was  so 
late  that  the  cook  had  gone  off  fishing  and  no 
one  was  there  except  Portyghee  Joe  to  greet  us 
and  fervently  restore  the  pants  and  money.  We 
had  great  felicitation  and,  of  course,  coffee,  but 
the  rest  of  our  party  stood  about  in  glee  listen 
ing  to  Esther  and  me  hint  it  was  about  dinner 
time. 

And  it  was — that  was  the  awful  thing  about 


322    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

it,  and  we  had  been  up  since  five  o'clock  with 
nothing  to  eat.  We  got  away  for  home  at  two 
o'clock  with  the  cook  still  missing  and  our  sense 
of  delicacy  too  great  to  demand  dinner.  Inno 
cent  Portyghee  Joe  didn't  dream  of  it,  but  on 
the  way  back  Allesjandro  and  Hen  and  the 
Baroness  shouted  with  laughter. 

"  Next  time  you  will  scorn  our  cooking,  will 
you?"  chortled  they — "and  tell  us  about  the 
famous  chef  at  Manila !  " 

So  we  drifted  back  to  Cutler's  with  madden 
ing  slowness.  Allesjandro  related  how  he  came 
to  Barataria  twenty-five  years  ago,  after  desert 
ing  from  a  Spanish  merchantman  on  the  New 
Orleans  levees.  In  those  days  it  was  the  custom 
of  the  Spaniards  to  seize  natives  of  the  Philip 
pines  in  the  outlying  islands,  impress  them  into 
forced  service  in  the  merchant  marine,  and  treat 
them  so  cruelly  that  they  would  desert  in  any 
port  of  the  world.  Allesjandro  and  two  other 
"  Manilamen "  escaped  across  the  Mississippi, 
seized  a  skiff,  and  threaded  the  bayous  down 
from  New  Orleans  seeking  camps  of  their  fel- 


WITH  THE  MORO  EXILES      323 

low  countrymen  which  they  had  learned  were 
here.  They  suffered  greatly  from  hunger  and 
thirst,  but  finally  reached  Bassa  Bassa  platform 
and  were  cared  for.  He  fished  and  trapped  for 
several  years  until  he  met  the  Baron  and  entered 
his  service. 

The  wind  came  later,  a  mighty  pocketful  that 
we  didn't  want,  just  as  we  managed  to  crawl  into 
the  cove  at  Cutler's.  A  black  squall  jumped 
into  the  west,  bowled  down,  and  put  the  sloop 
on  her  beam  ends  before  we  got  her  sails  in. 
Then  we  managed  to  get  ashore  in  the  skiff, 
drenched  and  laughing  and  hungry,  to  find  the 
Baron  entertaining  a  guest  from  St.  Joseph's 
Island — Old  Mariano,  grizzled  and  dark,  who 
understood  little  English.  But  he  smiled  con 
tinually,  and  when  Allesjandro,  over  the  hot 
rice,  bawled:  "Blow,  San  Anton— e!"  Old 
Mariano  joined  the  fun  .  He  paddled  off  at 
length,  leaving  with  us  an  invitation  to  have 
breakfast  Sunday  morning  at  St.  Joseph's. 

Then  another  night  of  wondrous  moonlight, 
the  bay  a  mirror  showing  the  myriad  stars, 


324    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

while  twenty  miles  to  the  south,  the  Grand 
Terre  light  flashed  now  and  then  so  clear  was 
the  atmosphere.  We  had  more  opera  and  mos 
quito  dope  and  went  to  bed  contentedly,  with  the 
flicker  of  the  palm  thatch  as  the  lizards  scam 
pered  through  it  in  our  drowsy  ears. 

We  started  at  six  o'clock  for  St.  Joseph's,  the 
Baroness  and  I  in  one  pirogue  and  Hen  and 
Esther  in  the  other  with  Allesjandro  paddling. 
Such  gayety  was  quite  too  much  for  the  Baron's 
bones,  but  he  waved  us  grandly  ff  Bon  voyage" 

The  four  miles  gave  us  all  a  taste  for  break 
fast,  and  everyone  helped  prepare  it.  Mariano's 
camp  was  quite  the  most  primitive  place  we  had 
yet  seen,  a  tiny  shack  of  palms  laced  and  tied 
with  grass  thongs  to  the  pole  supports.  And  in 
it  nothing  but  the  two  bunks  of  the  old  Moros,  a 
rude  table,  a  box  for  their  scanty  groceries,  and 
a  clay  furnace  hollowed  out  of  the  floor  at  one 
end.  But  how  clean  it  all  was !  The  clay  floor 
was  hammered  and  swept,  everything  was  in 
order,  all  the  extra  clothes  were  out  on  bushes 
about  the  hut,  and  even  the  path  leading  to  the 


WITH  THE  MORO  EXILES      325 

thatch  fence  of  the  little  garden  was  swept 
thriftily. 

The  island  was  much  like  the  other;  in  front 
a  sweep  of  slow  tide  water  reaching  to  the  tree 
less  prairies,  and  behind  the  low  ridge  which 
made  the  garden  and  the  house  spot,  the  illimit 
able  marshes  again  stretched  away.  Nothing 
was  in  sight  to  break  the  brilliant  salt  swamp 
colors  except  a  few  far  oak  chenieres — nothing 
except  sky  and  sea  and  the  eternal  silence. 

Old  Mariano  and  his  partner,  Juan  Sam- 
boanga,  who,  said  Allesjandro,  was  so  called 
from  the  town  he  hailed  from  in  the  Philippines, 
were  Spanish  deserters  like  most  of  the  other 
Manilamen.  They  had  been  in  the  Barataria 
swamps  for  forty  years,  living  simply  by  their 
seines  and  traps  and  gardens.  Old  Juan  was 
one  of  the  most  striking  figures — very  tall  and 
lithe,  his  long  beard  white  as  snow,  his  cheeks 
and  brow  smooth  and  brown  as  chocolate.  His 
eyes  twinkled  under  the  bushy  brows,  and  his 
great  dignity  made  me  think  of  an  Arab  chief — 
as  you  read  of  Arabs. 


326    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

One  could  not  ask  for  more  graceful  hospital 
ity  than  these  two  lonely  old  men  extended. 
They  apologized  for  nothing.     Their  poverty 
was  plain,  but  all  was  yours — accept  it.     They 
had  a  great  gumbo  brewing;  crabs  and  shrimp 
and  oysters  along  with  okra,  tomatoes,  lemon, 
parsley,  bay  leaves,  peppers,  onions,  lard,  and 
garlic.    When  we  had  inspected  the  neat  garden 
with  the  white  shells  carefully  piled  between  the 
rows  of  young  plants  we  came  back  to  this  feast. 
They    offered    us    water    in    little    calabashes, 
adorned  with  colored  clay,  and  coffee  in  battered 
tin  cups.    Their  bread  was  broken  from  a  huge 
loaf  baked  in  the  clay  oven  which  was  outside 
the  house  and  almost  as  large.    And  though  the 
two  old  men  were  silent  or  laughed  shyly  with 
Allesjandro,  who  interpreted  our  compliments 
to  them,  never  did  a  rarer  spirit  of  fellowship 
shine  forth  than  from  their  eyes.     They  were 
simply  and  proudly  glad  to  have  us  as  guests — 
that  was  all. 

Old  Juan  said  that  he  was  one  hundred  and 
ten  years  old,  and,  scanning  him  closer,  one  be- 


WITH  THE  MORO  EXILES      327 

lieved  it.  His  fine  brown  skin  was  literally  a  fila 
gree  of  intricate  lines.  But  his  eyes  were  clear 
as  a  girl's,  and  though  Mariano  did  most  of  the 
work,  Juan  declared  he  felt  young  as  his  com 
rade.  A  gay  young  comrade  of  eighty! 

We  smoked  and  gossiped  all  morning  with 
our  hosts  in  the  shade  of  the  cheniere.  When 
we  addressed  a  question  they  would  beam  and 
turn  to  Allesjandro  for  a  clearer  interpretation 
and  the  little  sailing  master  would  gesticulate 
excitedly,  both  arms  working.  Then  the  two 
gentle  old  men  would  debate  the  matter  and  ex 
plain.  I  wanted  to  learn  more  of  their  lives, 
for  Juan  had  been  a  head-hunter  in  his  days  as 
a  young  Moro  before  the  Spaniards  captured 
him,  but  conversation  via  Allesjandro  was  diffi 
cult.  I  couldn't  catch  all  of  Allesjandro's  inter 
pretations. 

But  we  bade  them  good-by  and  paddled  back 
in  the  hot  mid-day  to  sleep  and  loaf  until  supper 
time.  The  old  Moros  had  made  us  a  present  of 
a  dish  of  roe  and  fish  and  spices  all  pickled  and 
bay  leaf  scented,  and  we  presented  this  to  the 


328    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Baron  for  the  evening  meal,  and  he  accepted  it 
with  grand  ceremony. 

I  shall  not  forget  that  last  night's  beauty. 
There  was  a  phenomenon  at  sunset  that  brought 
us  all  out  on  the  tiny  shell  beach  to  exclaim  and 
wonder.  Some  impalpable  mist  was  in  the  air 
over  all  the  sea  and  marshes  and  through  this 
the  level  sun  rays  shot  until  it  hung  everywhere 
in  filmy  fringes  of  translucent  golden  web. 
Here  and  there  a  patch  of  blue  sky  showed 
dimly,  and  under  it  the  limitless  marsh  was  an 
emerald  encircled  by  the  mirrored  waters.  So 
still  it  was  that  a  single  wild  duck  winging  into 
this  magic  light  could  be  heard  far  away;  and 
so  fragile  hung  this  curtain  that  when  the  red 
globe  of  the  sun  dropped  into  the  waters,  it  van 
ished  like  a  dream,  leaving  the  sky  and  marsh 
crystal  clear  again. 

Allesjandro  said  it  must  mean  "weather." 
The  Baron  hobbled  back  to  his  gallerie.  He 
waved  his  hand  with  a  sort  of  pathos  out  to  the 
silent  plumes  of  the  Spanish  moss  reflected  from 
the  live  oaks  in  the  water. 


WITH  THE  MORO  EXILES      829 

"  Well,  well — and  I  am  old,  and  one  of  these 
days  the  island  shall  know  me  no  more.  Eh, 
my  good  friends !  Let  us  fill  our  pipes  and  think 
how  very  fine  it  is  to  be  together." 

He  was  not  poor — not  he!  Any  more  than 
Old  Mariano  and  his  friend  at  St.  Joseph's! 
What  if  the  Baron's  castle  had  come  to  be  a 
three-room  hut  of  boards  and  palm  leaves, 
browned  and  smoked  with  age  and  cheery  fires, 
home  tints  and  memories?  It  was  with  a 
princely  sort  of  grace  the  old  swordsman  waved 
you  to  his  table — you  the  guest,  Yankee,  Creole, 
Filipino  deserter,  beach  comber  of  Grand  Isle 
or  Tambalier;  to  his  rice  and  fish  coufbouillion, 
coffee,  bread,  and  melons;  to  his  bed  down  the 
beach  in  the  guest  house. 

Wiat  more  could  a  man  want?  Here  was  the 
gleam  of  shells  on  his  own  beach,  here  his  amaz 
ing  sky;  his  marsh,  his  palm  and  oak  and  gar 
den,  and  all  about  the  sea's  riches  came  to  his 
"  sweet  earth,"  as  the  natives  call  land  higher 
than  the  salt  tides.  There,  in  winter,  are  the 
deer  of  the  cliewere,  the  ducks  of  the  lagoons, 


330    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

the  mink,  otter,  muskrats  in  the  marshes  for  his 
man  to  trap ;  there  were  the  passing  shrimp  and 
trade  boats,  friendly  men,  neighbors  all,  wher 
ever  they  might  wander.  When  Hen  and  I  went 
to  our  beds  he  was  repeating:  "  Let's  fill  our 
pipes,  my  friends.  It  is  very  good  to  be  to 
gether." 

We  left  Cutler's  the  next  day,  paddling  up 
Bayou  Dupont,  a  narrow,  winding  way  through 
the  salt  marshes.  They  warned  us  against  it.  It 
led  into  uninhabited  desolation  all  the  way  to 
Barataria.  But  it  was  shorter  than  by  Little 
Lake,  and  besides  desolation  was  what  we 
wanted  to  see  rather  than  more  camps  and  plat 
form  villages.  Our  good  friends  waved  us  fare 
well  that  sunrise  from  the  shell  beach.  Alles- 
jandro  shouted:  "  Blow,  San  Anton — e!  Good 
winds  f  o'  you !  " 

And  now  I  hate  to  record  the  last  word  pf 
Cutler's  Island.  I  would  rather  remember  it 
as  we  were  welcomed.  Two  years  later  I  sailed 
from  Grand  Isle  up  through  broad  St.  Denis, 
intending  to  stop  and  look  the  spot  over.  But 


WITH  THE  MOBO  EXILES      331 

I  didn't.  As  I  saw  it  from  our  motorboat  I 
didn't  care  to.  It  was  the  year  after  the  great 
hurricane.  No  white  sloop  rode  in  the  little 
cove.  No  palm-thatched  guest  house  stood  down 
the  shell  beach.  The  Baron's  castle  had  van 
ished  from  under  the  big  live  oaks.  Those  oaks 
themselves  were  twisted  and  shattered,  seeming 
to  stagger  out  of  great  gouges  torn  from  the 
shell  reef  and  leaning  as  if  to  flee  from  the  ter 
ror  that  had  smote  them.  Nothing  of  all  the 
quaint  and  pretty  garden  remained.  The  sea 
that  rode  up  out  of  the  southeast  and  for  three 
days  burst  over  all  the  coast  had  riven  Cutler's 
to  a  mere  tattered  little  wilderness  about  which 
the  salt  marshes  enhanced  the  solitude. 

Curiously  enough,  Grand  Isle,  twenty  miles 
farther  out  toward  the  Gulf,  had  escaped  with 
nothing  but  an  inundation  and  the  loss  of  one 
life,  although  every  boat  save  one  in  its  anchor 
age  was  adrift.  Manila  was  badly  battered, 
and  the  shrimp  fishers,  cutting  the  masts  from 
their  luggars,  tied  themselves  in  and  drifted  with 
the  seas,  some  discovering,  after  the  tornado, 


332     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

that  they  were  stranded  in  impenetrable  marshes 
thirty  miles  from  their  wrecked  camps.  But 
next  month  back  they  all  came,  hopefully,  buoy 
antly,  forgetful  of  the  three  hundred  of  their 
fellows  who  were  lost  in  the  Tambalier  and 
Grand  Caillou  camps ;  or  of  La  Cheniere  Cami- 
nada  in  1893  and  of  Isle  Derniere  in  1854,  cele 
brated  in  Lafcadio  Hearn's  story  of  "  Chita." 

It  is  in  the  blood  with  these  hardy,  simple, 
fun-loving  children  of  the  South.  They  will  tell 
you  of  the  storms,  of  their  lost  fathers  and 
brothers,  with  a  shrug.  "  Tres  bien?  Who  can 
ward  off  the  will  of  God?" 

The  Baron  and  his  retinue  escaped  in  their 
sloop,  but  the  old  man  died  in  New  Orleans,  the 
following  year. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  "  BANTAYAN  "  ENDS  HER  CRUISE 

HEN  and  I  paddled  the  Eantayan  on  all 
that  hot  June  day  up  Bayou  Dupont. 
It  widened  out  to  still  and  nameless 
little  lakes  and  then  narrowed  to  the  same  man 
grove-fringed  channel.  It  led  us  into  low  scrubs 
of  palms  and  willows,  cane,  oak,  and  bronze- 
plumed  grasses  all  tangled  with  miles  and  miles 
of  morning  glories.  We  saw  more  fearless  bird 
life  in  those  two  days  in  Bayou  Dupont  than  we 
had  in  all  the  months  before.  Egrets  and  galli- 
nules,  herons  and  cranes,  snipe  and  plover  on 
the  mud  flats,  and  we  could  paddle  within  thirty 
feet  of  them,  so  somnolent  they  seemed.  And 
in  the  scrub  were  our  old  forest  friends,  the  scar 
let  tanagers,  cardinals,  and  mocking  birds.  Once 
we  stirred  a  deer,  which  splashed  easily  off  in 

833 


334     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

the  swamp,  and  twice  we  overtook  a  lazy  'gator 
crossing  the  bayou. 

But  the  prospect  was  depressing;  we  were  in 
the  lowest  fringe  of  the  great  Barataria  woods, 
where  the  last  trees  run  out  to  salt  water — a 
lonely,  dying  land  of  pale  opal  glows  and  si 
lences.  Far  to  the  east  now  and  then  wre  caught 
the  smoke  plumes  of  the  ocean  liners  ascending 
the  Mississippi  to  New  Orleans.  Once  we  saw 
a  white  plantation  house  in  the  dim,  blue  line  of 
woods  that  marked  the  margin  of  the  great  river. 
We  tried  to  get  near  the  higher  country,  but 
at  its  closest  five  miles  of  impassable  salt  marsh 
lay  between.  There  was  a  channel  somewhere, 
but  we  could  not  find  it.  At  evening,  when  we 
were  getting  rather  concerned  as  to  our  bearings, 
owing  to  the  channels  that  led  off  either  way  to 
end  in  mere  blind  morasses,  and  more  than  one 
earnest  debate  was  held  as  to  the  course,  we  came 
upon  something  that  made  us  shout.  We  knew 
the  right  channel  now! 

Ahead  of  us,  drifting  about  a  scrubby  point, 
we  saw  the  water  hyacinths! 


"  BANT  AY  AN  "  ENDS  HER  CRUISE  335 

They  were  drifting  with  the  ebb  tide,  and 
surely  they  must  come  out  of  Barataria  woods, 
whither  we  knew  Dupont  must  eventually  lead. 
So  we  paddled  on  more  hopefully,  for  the  pros 
pect  of  a  night  in  the  marsh  was  not  pleasing. 
The  mosquitoes  would  be  fearful.  More  lilies 
came  about  the  bends,  more  than  we  wished,  for 
soon  Hen  was  swearing  at  the  course  he  had  to 
pursue  to  avoid  them. 

"But  they  come  from  sweet  land"  I  cried. 
"  So  there's  a  way  out! " 

"  Fine.  But  suppose  they  fill  this  bayou  up 
a  bit?  A  battleship  couldn't  get  through  the 
lily  jams  we've  seen  up  on  Grand  River." 

But  we  had  better  luck.  We  worked  wearily 
from  dawn  to  dark  that  day  and  never  a  glimpse 
of  a  human  presence  did  we  discover.  And  then, 
as  we  were  paddling  on  along  a  thick,  scrubby 
shore  and  a  few  mosquitoes  were  winging  out  of 
the  brush  at  us,  I  looked  in  to  see  a  palm-thatch 
above  the  grass.  We  landed  at  once.  It  was  in 
use,  but  no  one  was  about.  This  was  the  first 
real  "  sweet  land  "  we  had  seen  since  Cutler's, 


836    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

and  some  swamper  had  taken  advantage  of  it. 
The  owner  had  left  his  coffee  pot  half-filled  on 
the  edge  of  the  clay  furnace  and  his  bars  hung 
under  the  shack,  so  we  knew  he  would  return. 

We  stuck  up  our  tent  alongside  and  appro 
priated  his  kitchen  utensils  and  firewood.  Our 
hasty  supper  was  almost  done  when  I  heard  an 
exclamation,  and  looking  out  on  the  dusky 
stream  saw  a  man  staring  at  us  from  his  pi 
rogue.  He  was  startled,  but  we  hailed  him.  He 
came  ashore  nervously  and  we  introduced  our 
selves. 

Ah,  yes,  the  Yankees  and  the  pirogue!  Of 
course  he  knew!  People  in  Barataria  were  still 
wondering  where  those  two  madmen  had  disap 
peared  last  March  when  their  silk  tent  was 
struck  on  Spanish  Man's  Point  at  Lake  Sal 
vador! 

Le  Nom  de  Dieu!  Where  had  we  been? 
Grand  Isle?  In  that  pirogue?  Impossible! 
And  La  Fourche  and  Morgan  City?  Up  the 

Atchafalaya ?  No — no,  my  friends — that 

can't  be!  A  pirogue  could  not  cross  all  the 


V- 


Old  Man  Captain's  camp  after  the  crevasse. 


"  BANT  AY  AN  "  ENDS  HER  CRUISE  337 

lakes?  And  how  could  we  live  in  the  flood 
swamps  he  had  heard  about  up  the  Mississippi? 
Le  Norn  de  Dieu — and  didn't  the  snakes  and 
mosquitoes  kill  us? 

We  had  to  sit  about  M'sieu  Adam's  campfire 
and  fight  mosquitoes  an  hour  telling  all  this.  He 
had  never  been  half  that  far  from  home — no — 
no — surely  not!  That  was  too  far  for  an  honest 
man! 

M'sieu  Adam  was  hunting  alligators.  Two 
more  of  his  friends  were  coming  later  and  they 
would  steal  down  the  bayou  in  their  pirogues,  a 
flambeau  on  the  prow  of  each,  and  when  they 
saw  a  'gator's  eyes  shining  in  the  dark  they 
would  pot  him  with  a  shotgun  loaded  with  buck 
shot. 

"  Not  for  me! "  sang  Hen.  "  Mosquitoes  all 
night  for  a  'gator  skin?  And  you'll  sell  it  for 
six  bits  to  the  trade  boats ! " 

After  we  had  retired  and  I  was  about  asleep, 
M'sieu  Adam  stole  to  our  tent  and  rustled  the 
bar.  He  had  thought  of  something.  His  friends 
would  be  coming  up  the  bayou  and  they  would 


338    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

see  this  green-white  tent  shining  in  the  moon 
light,  and  sure  as  can  be  they  would  either  be 
frightened  and  paddle  back  with  all  haste  or 
they  would  shoot  at  it.  So  M'sieu  Adam  was 
going  to  set  off  to  meet  them  and  warn  them 
not  to  disturb  the  visitors'  rest  by  raking  them 
with  buckshot. 

We  breakfasted  with  the  trio  the  next  morn 
ing.  They  had  four  alligators,  the  largest  one 
six  feet  long.  From  these  hunters  we  had  ample 
directions,  and  here  turned  almost  west,  passing 
Bayou  L'Traverse,  into  which  otherwise  we 
would  certainly  have  gone  and  been  hopelessly 
entangled  in  the  woods.  So  that  day,  working 
on  in  the  mid-June  heat,  we  came  out  of  Bayou 
Dupont  into  Barataria,  and  six  miles  up  came 
upon  the  first  luggars  lying  along  the  village 
front.  The  residents  of  the  forlorn  settlement 
greeted  us  cheerfully,  but  we  paddled  on  to 
Bayou  Villere,  and  that  night,  for  the  last  time, 
Hen  and  I  put  up  the  little  green  tent  at  Span 
ish  Man's  Point  in  the  exact  spot  we  had  pitched 
it  more  than  three  months  ago.  Old  Man  Cap- 


"  BANT  AY  AN  "  ENDS  HER  CRUISE  339 

tain  Johnson  was  running  his  crab  line  from  the 
same  leaky  skiff  when  we  hailed  him.  Then  he 
hurriedly  pulled  to  shore. 

"By  Mighty,  you  boys  done  got  back!  I 
reckon  you  seen  the  hull  gove'ment  you  been 
gone  so  long! "  He  lammed  a  few  houn'  pups 
aside  and  grasped  our  hands  shining-eyed. 
"  Many's  the  time  I  said  I'd  give  a  pretty  to 
see  you.  I  been  tryin'  to  save  a  durn  little  old 
melon  for  you  out  in  the  gyarden,  but  the  tides 
come  off  that  lake  too  salty  and  cleaned  me 
out!" 

Good  Old  Man  Captain!  Not  a  bit  daunted 
was  he  by  the  loss  of  a  season's  work.  Always 
the  fine  cheery  soul;  and  two  years  later,  when 
I  and  a  friend  or  two  were  called  on  to  do  the 
last  possible  simple  service  for  him,  we  laid  him 
under  the  oaks  of  Isle  Bonne — "  On  my  side, 
boys,  with  an  arm  up  to  keep  the  dirt  out  of 
my  face,  like  a  soldier  ought  to  be  buried!" 

And  to-day,  as  I  write,  the  yellow  waters  of 
the  great  river  to  the  North  have  poured  through 
Hymelia  crevasse,  six  feet  deep  over  Old  Man 


340    THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

Captain's  grave.    A  fine  old  soldier  of  dreams! 

We  paddled  on  up  Barataria  the  next  day, 
and  into  Harvey's  canal,  covering  twenty  miles 
in  the  heat.  And  where  the  locks  cut  through 
the  levee  we  found  Colonel  Harvey,  and  the 
deputy  sheriff  who  had  first  ushered  us  away 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand:  "  It's  the  free  state  of 
Barataria,  gentlemen!  The  swamp  is  yours!" 

They  asked  of  our  hunting.  We  hadn't  a  pelt 
to  show!  Of  our  fishing.  Not  a  yarn  we  had 
to  relate!  What  had  we  done,  then,  in  those 
three  months?  All  this  paddling  of  a  stick  of 
cypress  through  the  bayous  and  swamps?  We 
smiled  contentedly:  we  had  found  peace,  but  can 
you  explain  that  to  anyone?  We  had  the  mem 
ories  of  wondrous  dawns,  sunsets,  nights  of 
friendly  fires  and  pipes,  days  of  chance  and 
labor,  simple  faiths  and  cheery  greetings — the 
banal  snarl  of  the  cities  was  gone  quite  out  of 
our  brains,  some  callous  heaviness  from  our 
souls. 

We  stood  on  the  levee  looking  across  at  the 
line  of  docks  and  ships  before  New  Orleans  with 


"  BANT  AY  AN  "  ENDS  HER  CRUISE  341 

some  indefinable  regret.  Three  months  of  aimless 
paddling — quite  seven  hundred  miles  of  bayou, 
swamp,  lake,  and  coast,  in  and  out,  crossing  our 
tracks — and  the  wanderlust  was  still  calling. 

"  I  tell  you  what  let's  do!"  cried  Hen.  "  Let's 
put  the  old  tub  through  the  locks  and  end  the 
y'yage  right  down  town  on  Canal  Street!" 

I  looked  at  the  stubby  Bantayan — and  I 
looked  at  the  lordly  river.  "  Son,  I'm  with  you. 
I  hate  to  give  her  up ! " 

When  we  proposed  going  down  the  river  in 
that  pirogue  Colonel  Harvey  protested.  The 
Bantayan  had  no  more  license  to  be  in  the  Mis 
sissippi  than  Hen  had  to  enter  a  beauty  contest. 
But  we  insisted,  and  at  last  the  Colonel  yielded. 
"  Well,  paddle  her  into  the  locks!  I'll  put  her 
over,  and  she'll  be  the  smallest  craft  ever  locked 
through,  I  assure  you." 

And  he  did — that  thirteen-foot  dugout  in  the 
120-foot  lock!  Then  we  paddled  out  on  the 
Father  of  Waters,  stripped  for  a  struggle,  for 
if  a  liner's  swell  hit  us,  or  a  log,  or  the  wake 
of  a  tug,  it  was  "  curtains  "  for  the  Bantayan, 


342     THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH 

we  knew  well  enough.  I  had  my  note-books  tied 
about  my  neck  ready  for  the  swim.  But  we 
made  that  six  miles  of  river  flood,  down  past 
docks  and  ocean  liners  and  ferryboats,  in  good 
shape  and,  at  the  foot  of  Canal  Street,  ran  the 
pirogue  in  past  the  wave-washed  piles. 

It  was  dusk  by  then,  and  a  big  policeman 
standing  under  the  sparkling  arcs  saw  us  and 
yelled: 

"Hey — you!  Git  out  o'  there,  you  greasers! 
That  ferryboat " 

Barefooted,  bareheaded,  stripped  to  under 
shirts  and  khakis,  we  climbed  up  the  revetment, 
to  stare  one  way  at  the  city's  lights,  and  the 
other  at  our  homely  little  log  lying  on  the 
planks. 

Hen  lighted  a  cigarette  and  airily  ignored  the 
ferry  "  cop,"  who  still  eyed  us  with  indignant 
suspicion,  and  all  the  throngs  of  hurrying  House 
People  who  streamed  on  homeward  with  the 
merest  glance  of  disapproving  interest  at  us  two 
bronzed  tramps  off  the  water. 

"  Go  on — kill  yourselves  at  it,  you  poor  strap- 


"  BANT  AY  AN  "  ENDS  HER  CRUISE  343 

hanging  money-chasers,"  murmured  Hen.  "  I 
don't  care  if  I  never  come  back.  I  don't  care 
if — well,  say — old  topi  How's  your  hair  com 
ing  on  now?  That  chap,  Ponce,  hasn't  anything 
on  us,  has  he?" 

"  I  know  what  happened  to  Ponce,"  I  re1 
torted.  "  He'd  somehow  heard  of  the  crawfish 
bisque  that  Felix  Landry  makes  up  in  the  Atcha- 
falaya  lake  country,  or  Old  Mariano's  cou'bouil- 
lion  down  on  Bayou  St.  Denis.  And  he  just 
naturally  wore  himself  out  trying  to  find  them." 


THE  END 


